Hobbit, Lord of the Rings 1. Chapter 1

_**Legend of Durin II: Return to Khazad-dûm**_

Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

_Historian's Note: This manuscript is a direct translation from notes written during interviews with the participants. Due to the multiple languages common among the dwarrow, some explanation is needed. Spoken Westron is denoted by the standard "speaker marks", spoken Khuzdul with "italics within speaker marks" and the sign language Iglishmêk with 'single speaker marks'. Place names in Khuzdul have been left untranslated unless absolutely necessary for clarity. For non-dwarrow readers unversed in Middle Earth history, the following guide is given for the lives of the seven Durins._

_**Durin I (the Deathless) **__– Early First Age to about 590 _

_He vanished in the final battle against Morgoth, presumed slain, though no body was ever located._

_**Durin II (the Mithril Lord)**__ – Second Age 600 to Second Age 1421_

_Thrice great-grandson of Durin I_

_Aid Frér (1329-1421)_

_**Durin III (the Elf Friend) – **__Second Age 1227 to Second Age 1821_

_Grandson of Durin II_

_Given the Greatest Ring of the Seven by Celebrimbor_

_**Durin IV (the Iron Hand) –**__ Second Age 3277 to Third Age 233_

_Led the Khazad through the Last Alliance and the defeat of Sauron_

_**Durin V (the Wise) –**__ Third Age 1159 to Third Age 1829_

_Murdered by his son (Durin VI) over leadership of Khazad-dûm_

_**Durin VI (the Fallen) – **__Third Age 1731 to Third Age 1980_

_Killed by the Balrog his greed had awoken beneath Khazad-dûm_

_**Durin VII (the Last) **__– Third Age 2746 to Third Age 2941 / Fourth Age 1 to Present_

_Originally called Thorin Oakenshield (though this is becoming little known throughout the non-Khazad kingdoms)_

_Killed at the Battle of the Five Armies and revived after the Fall of Sauron_

_-Ori II, son of Nori, Scribe of Erebor_

Fourth Age, Year 14

What was Before

Thorin Oakenshield reined in his pony to look down upon a valley that would forever be the site of uncounted sorrow for those dwarrow of Durin's Folk, ignoring the restless muttering among the dwarrow of his army at his back. Rock, the dull grey of dwarrow tears, was almost hidden this warm spring day, however, by the bright greens, oranges, and splashes of deep purple of the mountain lichen, blooming in the sun, colors reflected in the still waters of the small pond beyond, as if this place had not once been bathed in blood. It seemed almost a sacrilege, now, to feel the peace here, the beauty, even as an air of solemnity hung about, as if the world paused, waiting for the sound of a single step to set all into motion again. For a long moment, Thorin could not help hesitating, wishing that he could stay within this moment forever more instead of facing what might be, the horrors his dreams had been conjuring for too many nights.

It was the deepest twisting of fate that it was his step, his word, that was awaited now, for this seemingly tranquil place was not only where a king and prince had fallen along with so many others, but where the road that led to madness and ruin had begun, and could be so once again. Would his word bring back the forgotten glories of dwarrow past, or condemn their race to fade and die, as the elves did even now? Was it wind from the peaks whistling in his ears, clean and fresh, or the filthy screams of orcs, come to maim and slaughter? Though he knew it to be impossible, he could almost smell the sickening odor of dwarrow bodies being burned as the bright colors gave way to red and black, the ashes scattered in waters of a nearby lake instead of being returned to rest in the bedrock beneath the mountains from which their race had been made long ago.

Suddenly unable to utter coherent words past a throat choked by emotion, the dwarf silently urged his mount to take a single step forward; the first step upon the path of redemption and healing for a race and a king, toward a goal whispered in dark tales and glorified in ancient song- Azanulbizar, the Eastern Gate of Khazad-dûm. Eyes tracked once more to the pool so still that it reflected the cloudless sky and the peaks towering above, equally famous and familiar from the time he was little more than a babe, listening to the stories of their people read in his grandfather's deep voice beside the fire in Erebor.

Heedless of the voices of his companions and the scramble of his personal guard, the king urged his pony down the slope until he could slip from her back to once again stand upon the shore of Kheled-zaram, the Mirrormere, where countless others of his line had also stood, paying homage to their ultimate ancestor, Durin the Deathless. To him, this bit of water would forever signify the duality of his life- the pain of a prince whose heart had been torn asunder only to be clumsily mended with the fire of anger, the forging invisibly, and fatally, flawed; the promise of a new beginning and the weight of the past in the shadowy forms of six other dwarrow who came before, if only he could release the prince of the past and embrace the king lurking deep within. Thorin closed his eyes and bowed his head as he sank to his knees on the rocks, unable to deny his memories any longer as he was drawn into a past so real that he could still hear the echoes of their cries, the pain of the physically injured mixing with the wail of those whose grief could not be contained.

_Thorin was on his knees, the rocky shore of the Kheled-zaram biting into his knees adding yet one more pain onto an already beaten body, but the young prince made no move to rise. Before him, the ashes he'd just poured silently into the still waters spread in a cloud and began to sink from sight to find their eternal resting place upon the bottom amid the reflection of Durin's Crown, the constellation seen by day or night there. Thrór, King under the Mountain. Frérin, Prince of Durin's Folk. Fundin, Lore Keeper of Erebor and Dwarf Lord in his own right. They were the first of the lords to be given the funerary rights of their people, so hastily arranged lest the orcs press out from the ancient halls once more, but Thorin feared that they would not be the last. _

_Even now, those still able searched among the countless bodies for those who clung to life…though too many would be found only to breathe their last this day. And those were the lucky one. Some had suffered the same fate as Frérin's patrol the day before the battle, so savaged by the orcs that only their armor and other personal items allowed them to be identified. It was in part those brutal mutilations that had fueled the rage of the attacking dwarrow even before the beheading of their king. Thorin's hands tightened on the rocky ground as he struggled with tears once more, the bloody mess of his baby brother brought back all too sharply by the thought. He could only pray to Mahal that the youngest prince had already been dead before it happened. Gagging on bile, he forced his mind back to what he was doing._

_By tradition, only the lords would be consigned to the sacred waters of the Kheled-zâram, as they would have had separate tombs had the dwarrow been able to do so. Those not of Durin's Folk would have their ashes returned to kin and their own rocky halls far to the east and west, but for too many, there was no home to return to beyond a bare encampment of rough tents in the wilds beyond the Anduin, where the refugees of Erebor waited. There would be no triumphant return to their ancient halls, now, though, only the tears of yet more dead. With no proper honorarium to house the ashes, they would be scattered in a small lake just over the rise. An honored place, but not here, where Durin the Deathless had once knelt…_

_As if summoned by that thought, Thorin passed a hand in front of his eyes as his vision seemed to blur and first one face, then more, rose from the cloud of ash in the water, piercing blue eyes locked upon his own, assessing, judging… The prince's already torn and bloody hands clutched at the rock desperately as he swayed, mind trying to fathom the history rising before him while also attempting to deny this as born of weakness and the horrors of battle overwhelming him, for none but Durin himself had ever seen a reflection here._

_Was he going insane, to see such things? There was no need to ask who these strange dwarrow were, six faces, alike to one another, yet each subtly unique, though he could not seem to see details. Did Durin truly show himself to an unworthy descendent, or would he, too, begin to rave and swing a battle ax at friend and foe alike, and even empty air, as witnesses said his father had before disappearing in the midst of the battle? Reeling physically with such fears, Thorin did not realize that he was on the brink of falling headfirst into the waters before him until a hand, warm, solid, alive, gripped his shoulder with bruising strength, pulling him back._

"_Thorin!"_

_The voice centered him, sight clearing once more to lock upon the kindly, worried eyes of Balin, his old friend and tutor in the labyrinth of dwarrow politics. The older dwarf knelt down before his prince as Thorin managed to twist his weary body around, putting his back to the images he'd seen. One of Balin's hands came up to gently brush his hair away from a wound upon his forehead as the other made a sound of dismay._

"_They tell me you've not taken food, nor let anyone see to your injuries, let alone rested, my prince."_

_Thorin didn't bother to enquire as to who 'they' were, memories of the last day too painful, disjointed, for his exhausted mind to make sense of, nor did it truly matter. He ignored the unaccustomed use of formal address from the older dwarf, knowing that Balin spoke so at least partially due to those who may be listening from the other kingdoms, not able to bring himself to care about such things now. Licking dry lips, he could barely force a whisper past a throat made raw with shouting._

"_It was my duty to see to the king, and-"_

"_And you've done so." _

_Balin cut him off curtly, undoubtedly to mask his own grief, eyes straying to the pool. His own father now rested there, and his sons had not the privilege of seeing it done because Thorin had been in too much of a fog of grief and pain to think that far. Thorin closed his eyes, cursing his own stupidity and blindness as the hand upon his shoulder tightened, giving him a little shake._

"_Don't, lad." The more familiar tone and term of endearment automatically causing Thorin to relax somewhat. "Dwalin and I already said our goodbyes when we set him upon the pyre. This was properly done by you alone; 'tis tradition and Fundin would've wanted it that way. Now, though, we need to see you taken care of. Our people will need a leader in the days ahead, and 'tis you they'll look to."_

"_Will they?" Thorin bit out, anger and doubt dripping off every word. "What has the elder line of Durin brought them save grief? They would have been better off begging for scraps upon bended knee before Nain! At least they'd be alive."_

"_Would they?" Balin's tone held some heat of its own, censorious of this new darkness his prince had fallen prey to. "Most would not call that truly living, including me! Come, can you stand?"_

"_I-"_

_Thorin's eyes dropped to the rock in front of him, ashamed of his own weaknesses being so blatantly displayed. Truthfully, he doubted he could stay upright much longer, let alone climb to his feet; every one of his wounds, mostly minor though they were, burned and throbbed with growing pain. Balin must have made some motion that he did not see, for moments later, more hands were under his arms, gently pulling him upright and supporting his weight as he made several fumbling attempts to walk before his legs and feet consented to follow his commands. As they started across the vast fields to where the tents sheltered the wounded, he turned to see who aided his steps, finding Dwalin upon his right and Gróin upon the left._

"_Óin?"_

_He had the presence of mind to enquire even as he thanked Mahal he'd not have to bring yet more evil tidings to the doorstep of Glóin, his brother Frérin's best friend, and Gróin's younger son. The fiery red head had been deemed too young, barred from the army by his father, a reprieve not granted Frérin, who was of an age with his friend, though Glóin certainly hadn't seen it as such. That one had been in a terrible rage for weeks leading up to their leaving; if tents had come with doors to slam, he doubted there'd have been one left intact! Glóin's older brother, however…_

"_My son lives, though he took a severe head wound. When he woke earlier, he didn't seem to hear the healer's questions, though they've some hope that it may be temporary."_

"_It's as well that Glóin shouts most conversations already, then."_

_Dwalin's dry observation earned a bitter bark of laughter from Gróin, whose endless complaints about his younger son's lack of volume control tended to appear with the least provocation. It was a mark of the depth of tragedy they faced that such poor jokes were the only way some could deal with the emotions set loose. The prince could only nod dumbly, more tears trickling down cheeks already made raw by earlier torrents._

"_Nain? Dain?"_

_Thorin could barely force out the names of his cousins from the Iron Hills, wondering how many more of Durin's blood they would weep for. A grunt from his right answered this time._

"_Nain fell before the king did-that white orc. You did well killing that one, Thorin. Need to reinforce that oak with iron, though, might've protected your shield arm a bit more."_

_It was only then that the prince realized that while his right arm was slung over Dwalin's shoulders, Groin was supporting him on the other side with hands carefully wrapped around his upper arm, his lower sleeve slit to accommodate the massive swelling of the darkly bruised skin from the elbow down. He vaguely recalled the feel of rough wood in his hand as the mace slammed down- Thorin physically flinched away from the memory, forcing the others to halt as his stomach heaved even though there was nothing left there to vomit. Finally, the others aided him to straighten back up, and he spoke once more, trying to sound casual and failing miserably._

"_Thing's probably trampled into the ground somewhere."_

"_No." Balin softly contradicted. "I picked it up. It's with my things, lad. Thought it best kept track of as I've already heard some calling you 'Oakenshield'. 'Tis a worthy name, honorably won."_

_Thorin's lips twisted sourly as he rinsed his mouth with the water Dwalin offered, turning his head to spit it out upon the mangled remains of an orc. Such 'honors' were not something he could bring himself to think upon yet, mind twisting to latch onto a suitable distraction._

"_Dain?"_

_He repeated, hoping his slightly older cousin, at least, had been spared._

"_He will make an adequate lord for the Iron Hills, especially as his grandfather yet lives to guide him."_

"_I thank you for the words of confidence, Gróin." The dwarf in question seemed to appear before them as Thorin's vision began to waver again, and he sagged a bit more into the support of the others. "Cousins. I see you found him. You look to be one thin support timber away from a full mine collapse, Thorin."_

"_Was there something you needed, Dain?"_

_Thorin started, the sharp edge to Balin's question cutting through the fog in his head. What had Dain done to warrant such hostility? Balin had always been tolerant to a fault, a mediating voice as the tension between the two factions of Durin's Folk had grown after Erebor's fall a dozen years earlier. The only thing that the prince could think might lie behind the hostility was the fact that Dain was bothering an injured and exhausted Thorin. If his friend's attitude had been meant to deter the other, however, it didn't work as he stayed stubbornly between them and the tent that was their goal. Dwalin's low growl finally made the Iron Hills dwarf move, but he followed them into the tent anyway. By that time, Thorin was past caring as he was lowered gently onto a cot, his body sagging in relief._

"_I'll find a healer."_

_Dwalin's low rumble made the prince reopen his eyes in time to see the spike of his hair ducking out the entrance to the tent. It was only as the flap slowly settled closed again that Thorin realized what a beautiful day it was outside, mild warmth and sunshine bathing the dwarrow in a mockery of the rain of tears falling from countless eyes._

"_The other clans wish to know if we continue this fight into Khazad-dûm. Cousins, I will be truthful- most wish only to return home, saying such actions would be folly."_

"_So the death of our king means nothing?" Gróin's outraged rumble marked the old dwarf at his most deadly. "The dead out there? We are upon the doorstep of our goal, and the others would give up!"_

_Dain had flushed with anger at the other's words, but he did not answer and Thorin narrowed his eyes, forcing his sore body upright once more._

"_And what do you say, cousin?"_

_He asked, trying to recall if he'd had any glimpses of the other after the fighting had begun in earnest. The dwarrow of the Iron Hills had been on the left flank, where they'd pushed forward almost to the very doors of their ancient halls at one point, but the prince had lost track when Azog emerged. There was a heavy sigh from the new lord, but he met the blue of the slightly younger dwarf's eyes resolutely._

"_I would say that I have looked into that black abyss and have seen only death. Perhaps one day Durin's Folk will again walk those ancient halls, but it is not this day, cousin. Not while Durin's Bane yet lurks below. Take your people elsewhere, Thorin; build a new life far from dragons and other foul beasts. Have they not suffered enough for the folly of Thrór?"_

That had engendered a rage from Gróin that Thorin had thankfully passed out in the middle of, if he recalled correctly, the memory twisting his lips in a bitter smile. Too bad it had not been nearly so simple as Dain's words had made it seem, the king mused as his eyes opened to lock on the bright stars shining in the waters before him. With no clear proof of Thrain's death, he'd been unable to force the hand of the King's council into naming him king before he came of age.

Instead, led by the conservative Gróin, they had bickered away the years while struggling to survive in what had only been meant as a temporary camp in the barren eastern plains known as the Brown Lands. Finally, Thorin had been able to seize control as king-in-exile, leading them to the ruins of Belegost in Ered Luin, but by that time, so many had died that some were advocating submitting to Dain's rule in the Iron Hills and stripping the kingship from the elder Line of Durin. Worse, the mutterings had not stopped as they prospered at last, instead growing stronger as each passing year enhanced the nostalgic memories of Erebor's riches-and the bitterness. It was that, in large part, which had forced Thorin's hand in attempting a return to Erebor to preserve the inheritance of his nephews. Of course, none of the grumblers were willing to face the danger that their words had compelled their king to risk!

It was the deepest irony of all that what he'd fought so hard to prevent had been made inevitable by his death in the Battle of the Five Armies; Dain had become king of all Durin's Folk, Thrór's line seemingly spent. No one had known, then, of the poison slipped into Dain's tea that had killed his wife and left his heir impotent, unable to sire children, threatening to end the bloodline of Durin completely. All who traced their lineage back directly to the eldest dwarrow Father had been urged to have children, Dain going so far as to compel Thorin's widowed sister, Dis, into remarrying. One of the two children of that union was with him now, as Thorin's heir, and he could not help the uneasiness such a trust engendered as the ill-fated quest to retake Erebor entered his thoughts once more.

Restless, and with memories pressing close, the king shifted his gaze to the side, avoiding looking directly into the waters lest the absence of his reflection give lie to his claims. Instead, his Durin blue eyes fell upon the ill-fated portal leading into Khazad-dûm, stone clean and grey in the sunlight, still not at ease with his own decision to return here, even though it had been prophesized long before. Too many times, he'd seen such things go awry to place faith in mumblings, no matter the assurances he mouthed to others. Nowhere had it been said outright that Khazad-dûm could again be returned to the glory it had known, only that the ancient realms would once more be theirs.

It had been upon that slim hope that Balin, his old friend and mentor, had taken a group of dwarrow, including Óin and Ori, to return to the realm, only to meet his doom. A fool's hope… and yet, had Thorin not gambled all upon a similar quest, only to see a dragon fall and a kingdom reclaimed to prosper once more? And had the Arkenstone, the Heart of the Mountain, not revealed itself as more powerful than any had guessed, not only returning Thorin and his nephews to life, but healing Kíli from a deadly poison later? It was that, not any vague signs or portents, which had proclaimed Thorin the last reincarnation of Durin the Deathless, eldest of the Seven Dwarrow Fathers and set his feet upon the path to reclaim their ancient realm! Heart firm once more, the king smoothly swung back around, looking fearlessly into the waters before him.


	2. We See Once More

Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

Author's Note: As some of you have noticed, I tend to blend the movie and book events for my stories. For Lord of the Rings, I favor the books, but may reference some minor movie events. For the Hobbit, I favor the movie(s), because, let's face it, other than Thorin, Bilbo, and Gollum, the characterizations in that book are at best sparse (Even Gandalf seems to have little purpose beyond timely rescues and ticking off Thorin!). This story will update every Monday, with the occasional bonus chapter sooner, if life permits me extra time to write! Enjoy, and thank you to everyone who has already reviewed! You guys rock!

2. We See Once More

It was almost an hour later when Thorin had returned to the peak, rejoining the others who'd stayed respectfully back when it became clear where their king intended to go, sending only his ever present bodyguards to stand as silent sentinels around him. He could see the question in Dwalin's eyes, his old friend, cousin, shield brother, who'd been by his side for so many dark days. A slight nod brought a grimly satisfied smile to the old warrior's lips, as if he'd had confirmed for him what he'd known all along. Perhaps he had, Thorin mused even as he bathed in the warm memory of seeing his own face in the water, crown of stars settling about his brow and glowing until they eclipsed all else. Dwalin had often had more faith in his liege than Thorin had in himself, especially when it came to finding the best path for his people.

Thorin's mouth drew down in a frown as thoughts of old reminded him of his nearest, and likely to be troublesome, neighbor. In the far distance to his left as he sat upon the rise was the smudge of trees that marked the golden wood of Lothlorien, the realm of the elven lord Celeborn, though no longer of the Lady Galadriel. When first Bilbo Baggins, and then Frodo, had chosen not to sail into the West, she had gone with the other two bearers of the Elven rings of power, Elrond and Tharkûn, that most meddlesome of wizards, upon one of the white boats. The Lady had bid her husband to remain here a while longer, however, to aid the steps of the younger races in this new age.

Thorin had rolled his eyes at the news, such instructions showcasing the sheer arrogance of the Firstborn, but also knew that Galadriel was unlikely to have meant it in such a condescending manner, at least not consciously. She and Elrond, of all the ancient elves that still walked Middle Earth, were the last to treat others as mere children, though both had their fair share of pride and utter surety in their own superiority. Too bad they'd both left over ten years ago now, leaving that arrogant, no good pile of trouble known as Thranduil behind, not to mention Celeborn. That one had a very low tolerance for dwarrow due to being kin to Thingol, the ancient elven king betrayed and murdered by dwarrow from Belegost. Of course, those had been of no relation to the Longbeards, but apparently if one dwarf was likely to commit such a crime, all must be, for the elves would fling such proof into the faces of dwarrow whenever the opportunity presented itself. For that reason, among others, Thorin had never planned upon, nor asked, for any help from elves, despite Galadriel's offer fourteen years earlier.

Other aid, however, had been gratefully accepted when offered before he could even ask, and not all had come from the other dwarrow kingdoms, though all six had sent at least token forces after it became widely known that Thorin was, in fact, Durin VII. Thorin's lips twisted into a bitter grimace at that, trying not to allow his temper to rise once more at the grudging response of the Ironfists, Stiffbeards, and Blacklocks, all eastern tribes, who'd agreed to each send a mere twenty-five volunteers – if they could get them. As these were the most likely to have members of the Death Warriors cult imbedded within, Thorin had been almost thankful for that token, and deliberately insulting, response. He'd heard the rumors after the War of the Ring, and seen the weapons seized from Sauron's forces that were not the make of Men, orcs, or elves. How many had aided Sauron during that time, hidden in the shadows where they still lurked, waiting to strike an exposed back?

The Stonefoots, Firebeards, and Broadbeams had more than made up for the other three's stinginess, each sending almost one hundred warriors, all battle-tested. With the three hundred from Erebor and the Iron Hills, this gave Thorin a little over six hundred dwarrow, a very respectable force even without outside aid. Given the close confines they'd be fighting in throughout much of the ancient kingdom, it would've been hard to have accepted more, especially with the others who swelled his numbers further.

The dwarf's eyes focused on the huddle of tall figures, too large to be dwarrow and too muscular to be elves, standing near the heads of their horses, displaying the patient nature of warriors well used to the interminable wait before battle. When the kings of Gondor and of Rohan had learned that Thorin was at last preparing to move upon his ancient realm, it was felt that the Free Peoples of Middle Earth would all benefit from the cleansing, and so, the two major realms of Men had sent representatives. Two hundred strong, all were veterans of the last battles of the War of the Ring, vouched for by those few among Men Thorin trusted, and unlikely to be intimidated by the roughest dwarrow.

Leading the group from the reunited realms of Gondor and Arnor was Mablung, the Ithilien Ranger, and his counterpart from the other side of the mountains, Balan, a Dúnedan, and distant cousin to the king. The coincidence of the name had been oddly reassuring to Thorin, especially when the tall, rangy man with the thick black hair had confessed to having met and admired the elder dwarf lord when Balin paid Bilbo a visit in the Shire many years before. While Rohan had also sent a few men, most of the Rohirrim were too uncomfortable below ground to be of much assistance, instead pledging to form a perimeter guard so that foes could not trap the dwarrow within Khazad-dûm. They would be taking orders from the two rangers, as several of their men would be with the outer patrol as well. Most of the support offered by the horse lords had come instead in the form of supplies, and the rangy, wild ponies to haul such things, for they had not forgotten the aid and friendship once given them by the ancient dwarrow of Khazad-dûm.

Even the Shire had sent canned goods from their gardens and pipe weed from their fields, along with pigs and other meat upon the hoof. The harvests in that small, once more peaceful land had been exceptional for the last decade, and true to their nature, the hobbits were happy to share. Most of that largesse was due, of course, to the combined influence of Meriadoc Brandybuck, the Master of Buckland, and Peregrin Took, the new Thain of the Shire. Not to mention a certain former gardener turned Mayor and Master of BagEnd. Merry and Pippin, as they preferred to be called, had both made the journey to Erebor to offer the aid in person, a trip made much shorter and safer by the escort of Elrond's twin sons.

As Frodo had but lately returned to the mountain kingdom he used as his main residence from his latest wanderings, it had made for a joyful reunion, replete with the type of mischief the younger hobbit duo and the dwarf princes, all three of them, had been notorious for, though Thorin had noted Kili's odd reluctance uneasily, seeing it as yet one more sign of the profound changes worked upon his nephew by the traumas he'd endured.

It had become clear after they returned to the mountain that much of the cheerful, prankish Kíli that had finally emerged toward the end of that journey had been a façade, purposely forced into place to alleviate the worry of his kin. The Kíli who'd appeared after the mess with Frár had been more serious, often solitary, and haunted by some unknown worry that he stubbornly refused to confess, even when cajoled upon by Fíli. Even his marriage and newborn son, while lightening the prince's darkness, had not been able to completely return him to the dwarf they'd once known.

When the hobbits had come, Thorin and Dis had both seized upon the slim, fading hope that they might fully revive the prankster, but it had been evident before long that what was shown was again forced. The hobbits' visit had presented its own complications, Thorin noted sourly, gaze slipping to a small knot of several dwarrow, a contrasting pair of brunette and blonde heads in the center, the sun glinting off of the mithril, silver, and gold beads capping the braids of the ruling line of Durin.

_Six Months Prior- Erebor_

_Thorin paused at the door to the old council chambers adjoining the royal apartments, which had been redone as an office for his nephews. There was no murmur of voices, surprising given the urgency of the message summoning him here. Fíli and Kíli, it seemed, were always at work these days, proving to be the exceptional rulers that he and Dis had seen hinted at throughout their childhoods- unlike their still somewhat wild younger sibling, Therin. That one was proving to be a constant source of trouble, mostly because he had an appalling habit of acting before thinking things through, making Therin seem the youngest of Dis' children when, by pure age, that spot went to Kíli. Perhaps because of that, more than sheer convenience, Therin was referenced as the youngest prince of Durin by almost all, as he actually was by birth order. Now, Thorin could only wonder what trouble he might have been up to that had caused his older brothers to summon their uncle, for anything that urgent almost always had to do with the black haired font of impulsivity. _

_With a sigh, he pushed open the door, only to find himself staring at an empty room, a cup on the floor rocking gently in a puddle of water the sole sign of recent occupation. Puzzled, Thorin glanced back at the guard who stood as still as a statue next to the entrance. It was no one he knew well, but the young dwarf had made no move to stop the king from entering, and neither of the princes was allowed to leave their chambers without at least one guard in attendance, so one of the two must be within. _

_As Thorin had warned, the threat from the cult known as the __Amrad Azaghálh had been far from ended with the death of Frár. That first spring had found Thorin at the head of an army that included representatives of all seven dwarrow kingdoms riding to retake the Iron Hills. There had been a few short, but bloody, skirmishes with dark dwarrow and their allies, mostly Men from the East and orcs, but overall the retaking had been easy. Too easy. All had been wary, looking for an enemy that stayed in the shadows waiting to pounce, though none believed it to be Fain. That unworthy and his henchmen had all fled before they reached the inner halls, showing themselves at last as the cowards Dwalin had long ago named them. _

_Reassured that the Iron Hills was safe and rebuilding under a handpicked representative of Erebor, the king had returned to the Lonely Mountain only to find that there had been another attempt on the lives of his older two nephews. Kíli had come through without a scratch, but Fíli had suffered a head wound that kept him bed bound for almost a week, and had necessitated their older kin's insistence upon guards even within the mountain. It had also redoubled his resolve to deal with the cult before thinking about Khazad-dûm. _

_Four more years of warfare had resulted, cleansing the sacred halls where Durin first awoke beneath Mount Gundabad, and razing the filth of Goblintown so the High Pass was once more secure for travelers, but still they encountered only handfuls of cultists, leaving most of the fighting to those remnants of Sauron's and Saruman's forces that allied with them. Then, eight years of silence- no attacks, no rumors being spread, nothing! Except that last fall a band of Men with more courage than brains had ventured into the pit of Moria lured by whispers of the mithril waiting there… and vanished into the darkness. When word finally reached Thorin, he knew with a dread certainty where his enemies hid, and so now he planned. _

_With a bitter twist to his lips, he allowed the door to swing shut, moving further in. To his right, __Fíli's desk was covered in scrolls and pieces of parchment with half-illegible notes scrawled upon them, while Kili's stood empty save for a map… of Khazad-dûm? With a frown, the king leaned over to more closely examine the old parchment, noting that someone had laid a piece of onionskin paper over the top with notes upon it in Kíli's neat hand. The rustle of the heavy tapestry on the back wall being pushed aside alerted the king that he was no longer alone as a young dwarrowdam in a rich blue velvet dress entered from the concealed door to the inner apartments. The young one started as Thorin straightened, allowing the door to swing closed._

"_Thorin! I did not expect you here!"_

_There were suspicious rings of red around her eyes and she sniffed a little, hand clutching her skirt as if to stop the automatic reach for a handkerchief._

"_Vestri. What's wrong, child?"_

_The older of Glóin's twin daughters, and the wife of the younger Prince under the Mountain, tried to force a smile, but it wavered, disappearing almost instantly. Thorin crossed to her, opening his arms in invitation, and his marriage-niece collapsed into the embrace, shoulders shaking slightly as the tears renewed._

"_I'm being silly. Senata says he'll be fine, it was just a bad fall and a bit of a fever, but-"_

_Thorin stiffened at the muffled words, drawing the younger dwarf back so that he could meet her startlingly bright green eyes, the only way he had to tell the twins his nephews had married apart, for her sister bore the intense Durin blue irises of her father's paternal heritage._

"_What happened?"_

_She sighed, sinking onto the low settee he led her to, and shook her head._

"_Merry and Pippin came to visit, and Kíli drew them into a discussion on Khazad-dûm using an old map Nori's son, Ori, found buried in the archives. The boys were playing on the floor, but grew bored when everyone seemed more interested in, and I quote, 'Dumb, boring, stinky drawings so bad that Kala could do better', and left."_

_The king did not bother hiding his smile at that, knowing the attention span of seven year olds was limited at best. That the two boys, cousins born on the same day and closer than most brothers, with the notable exception of their fathers, had stayed as long as they had was probably only due to the novelty of being around their hobbit visitors. Nor was the comparison to the 'artwork' produced by Fíli's two year old daughter all that surprising, as most maps of Khazad-dûm Thorin had seen made about as much sense as her scribbling, no matter what the child claimed they were. He could not, however, bury the foreboding that nagged._

"_And?"_

"_And… the boys didn't pick up their toys. Pippin stepped on one, lost his balance, and sent Kíli sprawling. He landed-"_

_He didn't hear anything further, as he was already through the door to the apartments and down the corridor added to allow the needed expansion for the children eight years ago. Both doors leading to the princes' private quarters were ajar, meaning that the divider between the two was pushed back to make one massive room, as it often was during the day, so Thorin simply entered the nearest, though it led to Fíli's side. At the other end of the room, he could see his oldest nephew and sister seated near a large bed, speaking quietly. There was no sign of his other marriage-niece, Vestri's younger sister, Austri, so she must be with the children._

_The fact that the brothers had actually married sisters still made the king chuckle, along with most of the rest of the mountain. No one, not even Glóin, had expected anything to come of his long-ago needling of the princes about a potential double marriage with his daughters, but that was exactly what had happened. Austri and Fíli had been mutually smitten almost as soon as they were introduced, though it had not been nearly so smooth between Vestri and Kíli. If the first couple had been in the throes of a bardic tale with love at first sight, the other two had shared instant mutual animosity that stopped just short of all-out war._

_For months, the rooms of their families were filled with mutterings, each less than flattering about the other, whenever the two were forced to meet. Unfortunately, with their siblings' courtship, that had been often. _

'_Kíli is too stupid and stubborn to see past the too small nose on his face.' 'Vestri is a spoiled brat.' 'All Kíli talks about is archery and the mines.' 'She's more in love with gems and gold then any living being.' 'He can't grow a proper beard and his hair looks like a sparrow's nest.' 'She cuts sharper with her tongue than a mithril blade.' _

_Finally, the two had found themselves waiting alone in a room while their siblings had each run into delay after delay. Of course, had Fíli and Austri realized what was happening, they'd have sprinted back rather than risk the bloodshed likely to result with their siblings left alone with one another, but instead the other two had found themselves stuck with one another for over two hours. What was said in the room had never been revealed, but Kíli had emerged with a black eye and a hopelessly smitten grin upon his face while Vestri's braids were in a tangled mess and her eyes only for the archer. Their families had sighed, shook their heads, and announced not one, but two pledgings, to rejoicing throughout the mountain._

"_Fíli?"_

_Voice low, the king made his way to his nephews' side, perching carefully on the side of the bed where Kíli lay, head pillowed on his arms and back covered by a cloth with the melting remains of ice atop it. The older prince smiled faintly, face weary, but showing none of the anxiety he'd dreaded seeing._

"_He finally stopped fighting the herbs and went to sleep a few minutes ago, but his back is very swollen. He landed right on the scar. Vestri went to see about getting more ice from the peak."_

"_What happened?"_

_The king questioned again, absently smoothing the wild dark brown hair from Kíli's forehead as he felt the low heat radiating from the younger prince. It was not a high fever, but still worrying given that the younger dwarf had been prone to such things since returning to life. The reply, however, did not come from the blonde._

"_Smashed… Smaug!"_

_Fíli let out a half amused, half exasperated snort at his brother's slurred speech, brown eyes hazy with whatever drug he'd been given fighting to open and then stay that way. Dis silently held up a wooden dragon, perhaps a foot and a half long, made for his grand-nephews by Bofur, one wing and the tail cracked and hanging at an odd angle while the head was gone completely. Fíli took the offending item from his mother as Thorin winced before turning his attention back to his ailing kin._

"_Shhh… Go back to sleep, Kíli, I merely wished to check on you."_

_Kíli made an inarticulate noise of protest that had his brother laughing softly as he tweaked his sibling's nose. Unfocused eyes threatened to cross as the brunette tried to follow the offending finger, one hand batting sloppily at it._

"_I swear, little brother, if you didn't have bad luck, you'd have none at all!"_

"_Bett'r'n fobbit heet."_

_All three could not help laughing now, Dis rolling her eyes as she moved to replace the ice and wet cloth that her son's nonsensical protest had dislodged. Thorin grimaced at the sight of swollen flesh, already starting to bruise around the massive scar where an assassin's mithril blade had originally ended Kili's life. For Thorin, the sight was a constant reminder of the sacrifice his poor choices and lust for gold had demanded, and not from him, but from those dearest to him. His sister, however, must have misunderstood the frown, for she stood back up defiantly, hands on her hips._

"_He's never been all that coherent when given pain-killers, you know that!"_

"_Aye." The king agreed, "That's why he fights taking them so. The pain must have been severe for him to consent, but a back injury and pain droughts do not explain the fever."_

"_U-uncle…rock. Old and crumbling, waiting. Need me."_

_Kíli's mumbles drifted off as he stilled, breathing returning to the slow pattern of sleep as tension left his body. Thorin's eyes met those of his eldest nephew, making the other look away, hands suddenly clenched in his lap upon the brightly painted toy until the wood of the tail cracked the rest of the way through to drop upon the floor._

"_Fíli." The younger dwarf glanced up at the command in his uncle's voice. "I hope I'm wrong in my understanding of what he sought to tell me, why the two of you summoned me here, but I fear I'm not."_

_The unhappiness upon Fíli's countenance was all the answer he truly needed. When they had returned to life almost fourteen years ago, Kíli had bonded with the Arkenstone, lending him its healing powers, but also making him one with the mountain, feeling the rock at times as if it were a part of him. Those abilities had come with a price, however, as each time the stone had exerted a greater amount of power to heal, prophesize, or reach across the distance to the mountain, it had sent that energy coursing through the young dwarrow, leaving him with a fever. The more power, the higher the fever, to the point where it had twice come close to killing the young prince. Thankfully, once Kíli had healed from the final confrontation with Frár, the fevers had disappeared as minimal energy was needed to read the stone of his home, and the Heart of the Mountain had remained otherwise quiescent. Until now, it seemed._

"_He could see the condition of the stairs the hobbits were describing in Khazad-dûm, though he said it was like pushing through sand to do so."_

Thorin snorted at the memory, eyes lingering upon his nephews, all three of them, before returning to the dark, jagged hole that had once been the mighty eastern gates of the ancient city. No, he had not liked what Kíli had said at all, though he'd also been unable to argue against the prince's value to the expedition. To know what tunnels dead ended, or were likely to collapse before they did so, taking valuable lives with them? Or were a trap created by the cult, waiting for a dwarrow to walk into range? He could not turn down Kíli's request to once more join his uncle, no matter how badly he wished to. And of course, where Kíli went, Fíli would be found nowhere else. In their absence, Austri and Vestri had found themselves elevated to co-regency, with the able advice and assistance of Dis, Vili, and their own father, Glóin.

A disturbance near the left edge of the army drew his attention, his greater height upon the rise allowing him to see a large body of horses bearing down upon them. The figures riding them were obscured beneath the dust cloud raised by their passage, but he could see enough to know that they were not dwarrow, nor expected, even if they only numbered perhaps thirty.

"Kíli, Fíli, Therin! Bofur, Dwalin, Nast and Kifir! With me!"

His roar cut through the stamp of hooves and low murmur of voices, making the heads of those called snap around before bringing their ponies onto a path to join him as he headed toward their uninvited guests. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Balan and Mablung heading out of their small contingent of Men and nodded gratefully when they caught his eye, silently asking if he wished their presence. If this was a group bent upon mischief, Thorin intended to let them meet a united front of multiple peoples, backed by an army. Dwalin, Bofur, and Nast, predictably enough, made sure to place themselves between any potential threat and the royals, though only Dwalin as yet had weapons to hand. The strangers drew to a halt several paces from the dwarrow line, hands held out in a sign of peaceful intent as Thorin got his first good look- and swore.

Graceful, lithe, _elven_…


	3. Diplomacy, Elven Style

Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

Diplomacy, Elven Style

It might have descended immediately into threats and drawn weapons had three familiar figures not come to the fore, only one of whom was elven. Prince Legolas, late of Mirkwood, now of the elven colony in Ithilien, rode forward, two ponies pacing him with Gimli and his wife, Thorin's niece, Lis, on them.

"Legolas."

Thorin inclined his head in the respectful meeting of equals, ignoring the grumbles coming from the troops nearest him, who were not of Erebor, but of the Broadbeams and Firebeards who'd settled in the north of the Blue Mountains.

"Lord Durin. I am pleased we were able to catch up with you."

"Catch up? I had not known you were invited!"

The somewhat heated exclamation burst from his left before the king could reply and Thorin cast a quelling glare at his youngest nephew, but the lad ignored him, locking eyes with his twin. Behind them, there was a rumble of agreement from some of the other dwarrow, quickly silenced, no doubt by a glowering Dwalin. Few indeed were the dwarrow hearty enough, or fool-hearty, as the case may be, to take on the legendary Warmaster of Erebor!

Young Therin, however, was solely focused upon his own goals, ignoring what was taking place nearby, a bad habit Thorin had yet to break him of. Instead, the prince was doing his best to sit proud and regal upon his pony, who, it seemed, took a dim view of such proceedings, shying so that Therin had to clutch at the reins to keep from ending up in the dirt even as he tried to sound commanding and mature to his sister. Had they not had the elven audience, Thorin might have burst into laughter at the lad.

"I had not thought to need one."

Gimli rebuked his marriage-brother sharply, already glowering, though there was a sadness to the expression that told Thorin more was at work here then the dwarf warrior looking for a fight. Unless angry, the younger dwarf almost always had a smile on his face, a cheerfulness that was noticeably lacking at the moment. By the restless stir on his other side, the king could tell that Fíli and Kíli had also noted the unusual behavior, but sitting in the middle of a confrontation was hardly the place to quiz the other about it.

"You don't."

Thorin told him, including Legolas in the nod and getting a satisfied grunt in return, but Therin was now after another target.

"And you, sister, what are you doing here? An army is no place for a dwarrowdam without great need."

Lis merely raised an eyebrow, one hand upon her husband's arm to prevent the fiery red-head from raging further at Therin's haughty attitude. The girl had the same level head on her shoulders as Dis, though thankfully without quite so much of the temper!

"I ride home with my husband, brother, and met Legolas upon the road. We were summoned to Erebor. Svass succumbed to the fading three weeks ago." A deep sadness overtook her countenance, golden hair ruffling gently in the breeze as tears came to her eyes. "It was very quick, only three days after onset."

"What?" Kili's cry was sharp with worry. "Why did Ves or Austri not send word? Fíli and I would have returned immediately if we'd known their mother was dying!"

Thorin bowed his head briefly in respectful silence, others following suit as the news spread in whispers down the ranks. Many knew and counted Glóin a friend, grieving at the thought of that great dwarf losing the love of his life. The fading eventually took all dwarrow who did not die of accident, wounds, or one of the rare diseases to affect their race. It was a quick process, usually mere days or a few weeks passing between the onset and death, the dwarf enjoying good health even in old age until then. Only the call of the birds and the rush of the wind from the heights was heard for several long moments, and then Thorin and the princes raised their heads, Fíli giving voice to the thoughts running through his uncle's mind.

"If it was so fast, how did you two get from Aglarond to Erebor in time?"

Gimli cleared his throat, voice rougher than normal as he blinked back tears of his own. Though he'd always put up a stoic front, those closest to Gimli knew the warrior concealed a tender heart, joys and sorrows raging through him as strongly as his temper. The wound of losing his mother would be a long time in healing, but had he still been in the south when it happened…

"The eagles. They said that they owed a debt to our families, and bore us to Erebor in partial repayment." His dark eyes lit on the older princes, reassuring. "My sisters forbade anyone from sending you word, saying that you had other responsibilities that must take precedence, a duty to our people. Vili and Dis made sure they were looked after as you would have done had you been there, brothers."

At Thorin's raised eyebrow, Fíli smiled wanly, fiddling with his reins as Kíli fidgeted as if he wished to make a gesture to silence his brother, but dared not.

"Last winter, the stones told Kíli of an eaglet, newly fledged, who'd misjudged the currents around the peak and smashed into the rocks, injuring a wing. Since he'd not told his older, and wiser, kin what he'd meant to try, there were none around to rescue him. Our wives and I went up, bringing what aid we could to keep him comfortable until word could be sent. We'd no idea the young one was Gwaihir's grandson!"

The king grunted, shaking his head at them as Kili's head ducked, face flushing a bit. No doubt it had been he, and not the princesses, who insisted that they go up when he could not, unable to bear the thought of a fellow thinking creature alone and in pain.

"And your elven escort?"

The growl came from Dwalin, who, while tolerating Legolas, still had less use for elves then even Thorin. Predictably enough, Gimli stepped back, allowing the elves to answer for themselves, but it was not the prince who spoke, a stir among the other riders allowing another to pass. Thorin could do little beyond allow his face to harden into an expressionless mask as Lord Celeborn made his way forward, giving the king and his heirs a polite incline of the head.

"It came to my attention that you sought allies to aid in reclaiming Khazad-dûm, Lord Durin. I bring elves from not only my own forest, but also from Imladris and from the colony in Ithilien. All are used to working with those not of our own kind, and will follow your direction, though Prince Legolas will serve as their leader under that until such time as he must accompany Lord Gimli and Lady Lis south, when my grandsons will take over."

The twin dark-haired sons of Elrond rode one step forward, gracefully inclining their heads at their grandsire's words. For some reason he could not fathom, the sight of the two actually reassured the dwarrow king slightly, though he allowed no alteration to his expression, having grown to at least tolerate the duo upon his encounters with them. Normally, he would have greeted those two and Legolas with at least basic courtesy, but now he ignored them completely.

Instead, Thorin's chin came up as he kept his gaze solely on Celeborn, allowing him to look at the other out the tops of his eyes as he refused to crane his neck like an undignified child, cursing the elf's subtle power play in not dismounting his horse to put them upon an equal level. Despite his friendship with others of the Durins, Celeborn seemed intent upon intimidating him, and Thorin had no intention of allowing it to work. Even as he eyed the taller being, he gave a snort of contempt, making several of the elves close behind their lord flush with anger.

"Your words speak of friendship and alliance, but your actions betray you, telling only of contempt. As you said, it was no secret that I gathered arms to retake Khazad-dûm, nor was our army moving so swiftly that you could not easily intercept us before we stood upon the threshold. What value should I place upon those assembled in haste as mere show?"

While several of the elves nearest, including Legolas and the twins, blanched, others sneered, shaking their heads at the dwarrow, the army behind Thorin bristling in its turn. Hands tightened on weaponry, the air rife with violence about to explode. The dwarf king, however, watched only his adversary, noting the barest hint of triumph reflected in steel grey eyes. His suspicions confirmed, Thorin straightened, allowing a hint of mocking smile to grace his lips.

"A better question, perhaps, would be 'What will you do if I actually accept your offer as opposed to the angry and insulting dismissal you thought to provoke?'"

The elf lord showed no reaction, but it was not he that Thorin was testing at the moment. There was a gasp from one of the twins; Thorin thought it was Elrohir, while Elladan gave his grandfather a wounded and slightly angry glare. Legolas just rolled his eyes, giving Gimli a reassuring nod when his friend put a restraining hand on the elf's arm. So, the young ones had not known of or not seen the games being played, good. That made the decision Thorin was faced with much easier, though he must tread the path carefully, his own side now needing to be subtly handled.

"I did not ask for aid from the elves for a purpose, Lord Celeborn. There are many among my army who still recall the actions of Thranduil and the suffering that resulted." He did not feel the need to mention that he was at the head of that list. "With relations at last progressing between our peoples, I did not wish to chance an unfortunate incident with those whose blood will be running hot and have weapons to hand."

It was Legolas who elected to respond this time, a slight smile upon his lips, as if he found the dwarf king's careful language amusing. For that matter, he probably did, having grown up in the somewhat convoluted and treacherous environment of Thranduil's court and elvish politics. The prince of the Greenwood, Thorin had noted, often displayed a slightly odd sense of humor for an elf, or he and Gimli would have come to open blows upon leaving Rivendell with the Fellowship, despite Gandalf.

"We will stay amongst the Men, Thorin, but I believe you will have need of us. How did you intend to cross the expanse missing from the Bridge? You have seen my agility with such things, and I assure you, I am not the most agile of my kin."

The king's proud head came up, eyeing the prince.

"That point is a telling one, Legolas, but this is not a decision to be made lightly."

"If you fear the depth of our commitment, Lord Thorin, you need not. We have many a score to settle with the orcs and goblins hiding in the depths of your ancient realm, and we will confine our animosity to them."

One of the two sons of Elrond spoke for the first time, sending his elder another purse-lipped glare as he did so. Thorin waved that away, having had no doubt as history clearly recorded the reason for that hatred. Losing kin to that filth had always been one of the cornerstones upon which the tentative relations between elf and dwarf rested, as having a common foe proved an excellent equalizer. He was not surprised to feel a hand touch his arm, and to see Fíli's serious blue eyes regarding him with words unspoken within. Another hand, and he was amused to note that Kíli had moved at the same time as his older brother, with the ever opinionated Therin hovering behind, just out of reach.

"I take it that the three of you have thoughts upon this matter? Excuse us for a moment."

With that, the king turned to deal with the other side of this tangled knot, wishing he dared to solve it with a swipe of Orcrist's gleaming blade.


	4. The Last Alliance

Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

This chapter is being reposted with corrections suggested by Italian Hobbit! Thank you! If I did not receive constructive criticism, I would not grow as a writer!

4. The Last Alliance

Kíli surveyed the small party of elves seeking to join them, only paying partial attention to Legolas' words to his uncle as his eyes lit upon those of the twin sons of Elrond with a smile of genuine welcome. In the years since the marriage of their sister and the departure of their father, the two had become the lords of Rivendell, but the dwarf knew that they were more often to be found abroad. While Bilbo yet dwelt in Erebor, the twin elves had become frequent visitors, and Kíli could not help the small smile that played at his lips upon the thought of the venerable old hobbit who'd passed away peacefully in his sleep almost thirteen years ago now. Their esteemed burglar had lived up to his name once again, though in this instance, it had not been gems or a dragon's secrets he filched, but the ancient animosity between races.

Despite the example given in the friendship of Legolas and Gimli, the relations between the restored Greenwood and Erebor had been fraught with misunderstandings and deliberate slights, going nowhere. That is, until Bilbo Baggins decided to meddle! He had started by seeking permission to have Elrohir and Elladan visit, two elves with whom the dwarrow had never quarreled, knowing that the only thing Durin's Folk were known for beyond their stubbornness was their sense of honor. And given the Company's atrocious behavior when in Rivendell so long ago, he certainly felt that there was a debt to be paid!

Bilbo also knew that the dwarrow would be unable to deny such a simple, albeit uncomfortable, request upon the part of their hobbit; that odd being who had once left his cozy, peaceful home and faced death unprepared upon the slim hope that he could aid the dwarrow in retaking their lost one. So the twin elves had been duly invited and warily welcomed with strained politeness by the inhabitants of the mountain, both sides viewing it as a distasteful situation to be endured for the sake of a white haired, fragile hobbit.

Bilbo, in his turn, had taken shameless advantage of this fact, making the twins accompany him upon his daily wanderings through the markets and artisans' workshops, exposing both sides to the other while his presence also forced them to be upon their best behavior. When Elrohir had tried to object, the cunning hobbit had gotten a familiar twinkle in his eyes, blandly remarking that in his 'feeble condition', surely none would look askance upon friends aiding his steps, even if they happened to be elves!

Soon, everyone involved could not help looking beyond race to find at least acceptance, if not a few outright friendships, before the young lords of Imladris took their leave. This, in turn, had made those negotiating with Thranduil's people a tiny bit more open to the elven viewpoint, as they had learned that not all elves were automatically arrogant fools, inching both sides ever so slightly closer to that hard first step toward true reconciliation, even if it took another hundred years. When an amazed Kíli had cornered the hobbit, asking for the secret to such an astonishing turnabout, Bilbo had smiled perkily.

"_Once you realize that someone is just as bewildered by you as you are by them, it is hard to sustain the hate, Kíli. All I did was give both sides faces and names that were not 'dwarf' and 'elf'. Of course, I would not recommend such an approach with any of Sauron's evil get, but… Well, you get the idea."_

With their burglar's words ringing in his ears, the younger Prince under the Mountain placed a hand upon his uncle's arm just as Fíli did the same from the other side. Amusement flashed in the deep blue eyes that looked first to him, then to his older brother, and finally settled upon Therin, who had half-raised a hand, being too far from his uncle to touch him as his brothers had.

"I take it the three of you have thoughts upon this matter? Excuse us for a moment."

The last was directed at the elves, several of whom seemed a bit disgruntled with the greeting they had received, but Lord Celeborn simply inclined his head, pulling the large horse he rode back along with Legolas. At a curt gesture from the king, Gimli and Lis joined their kin, the younger warrior sighing in relief at the easy acceptance Thorin showed. No doubt he remembered, as Kíli did, the gruff King-in-exile who would accept advice from very few and criticism from none. Thorin, however, had changed with his resurrection, the experience having shoved his own failings into his face rather dramatically.

Therin, true to his impetuous nature, was the first to speak, making Kíli sigh, holding in his own annoyance. He just did not understand the other, seeing a reckless youth where a prince should stand, and one that was most apt to think of himself first, which baffled Kíli all the more given Bilbo's influence upon his younger brother's formative years. It had long been a source of friction between the two, one which Fíli was aware of, though Kíli had said nothing to anyone else besides Bilbo. The old hobbit had only shrugged with a heavy sigh, saying that Therin took after his uncle in much more than looks, and the young dwarf prince had a very difficult transition, going from the mountain to the Shire and then back again.

"I'd trust Legolas with my life, uncle, but I am wary of aid offered by any other, especially when we did not ask it of them. If someone offers me wine when I am not thirsty and knows of my dislike for it, should I thank them for the courtesy? Or take it as the insult it is meant to be? Send them away!"

"Is that what Bilbo would have said to such a sentiment? We did not ask for aid from the Shire, either, and yet they offered. Was that, too, meant as an insult?"

The brunette could not help needling the other, knowing of the regard Therin held for his foster-uncle and the other hobbits who had opened their land to two young dwarrow in fear for their lives. Sure enough, the youngest heir's face flushed ruby, blue eyes flashing cold anger as they narrowed at his sibling.

"That's not the same, and you know it, Kíli! The hobbits know nothing of politics and the games played among those- the other races."

"Those of the higher races, is that not what you meant to say, brother? You, who lived with hobbits for almost thirty years, and still you underestimate them! If they knew nothing of what was outside their lands, the Thain, Mayor and Master would not have been made councilors to the King!"

Kíli did not bother to hide the disdain, knowing too many among the dwarrow who shared such an attitude. Even he had been somewhat guilty of it when he had first ridden through that little land and realized that the hobbits felt no need to train with weapons or keep more than a haphazard border patrol. He had been scornful, making disparaging remarks to Fíli until the other had grown so exasperated that he had berated his younger sibling outside the round green door of their burglar, causing Kíli to be less than initially polite. It had taken the incident with the trolls and the confrontation with Azog to see that loving peace and isolation did not necessarily make one soft or stupid.

"Those three are different! They-"

"Are as astute as many in the Shire, had you bothered to listen, Therin."

Another voice broke into their discussion as a small figure cloaked in the grey-green of the elves pushed into the tight knot of dwarrow, though he was clearly not of the Firstborn. Fíli, Thorin, and Gimli exchanged glances, while Lis, copied Kíli, he noted, copied him, rolling her his own blue-greenbrown eyes as he moved aside to allow Frodo Baggins to ride his pony up beside the fuming youngest prince.

"Bilbo would be falling over himself to rebuke you if he'd heard such nonsense from your mouth!"

Though smaller and thinner than most dwarrow, there was a presence to the still-young looking hobbit that reminded those of the company strongly of Bilbo, belying his supposed age. Kíli well remembered the horror some had expressed when it was learned that their burglar was only fifty, over twenty years younger than even Ori, who had only just been counted as fully adult in the Blue Mountains. For Frodo, who had gained the Ring at thirty-three and stayed that way, only slowly showing signs of age over the last fourteen years since the Ring's destruction, and more due to the injuries and horrors he had lived through than any natural process, it was the shocking force of personality that was rarely displayed that served notice that all was not as it seemed with this small being. He was most definitely not the child his delicate features made him appear at first glance.

Just now, there was fire in the Ringbearer's blue eyes, hands on his hips, and a familiar hard, chiding look to his face, as one would regard a child caught stealing sweets. Kíli found himself bowing over his mount's neck to conceal a smirk, knowing that it would do nothing to improve relations with his younger brother should the other catch sight of it. As he snuck a look around, however, it became clear that several of the others felt no such need, openly showing their amusement as the hobbit all but tapped his foot, his dwarrow playmate of childhood wilting under his friend's disapproval.

"Frodo, you know I didn't mean-"

"Enough, Therin!"

Thorin's quick rebuke made Kíli flinch momentarily, for it had not been that many years since such a tone was directed at him. Indeed, he had caught such a verbal stinging several times even after returning to life, before illness, the weight of memories, and duty had burned much of the former mischief out of him. The weight of guilt and cares that could never be shared sat especially heavy.

Fíli, at least, had noted the change and did not seem to wholly approve of it, often playing small pranks on his younger sibling, which Kíli had felt honor-bound to retaliate for. Such mischief, however, no longer embodied the fervor and creativity he had once had, feeling more as if he were obliged to go through the motions for Fíli's sake, even when aided and abetted by his wife and young Kifir, who had become his aid. Still, they were not entirely without the ability to distract and amuse, just never for long. Such lighthearted moments, and those he spent with his kin in front of the fire of their rooms on quiet winter evenings, were the closest he had felt to what he had known before the summons to return to Erebor had taken the brothers from their home so long ago.

Some part of him had noted the growing maturity with sadness, knowing that he could not return to the child he had once been, with his only cares being winning the praise of uncle and tutors, or aiding his brother as they traveled to trade and hunt in the areas nearest their home. Thorin had been right, by that fire long before, to rebuke him as knowing nothing of the world, and there were days he wished he could return to that innocence, even as he railed at just that in Therin, and Fíli watched him with ever more worried eyes. He longed to lift that concern from his golden sibling, but he dared not, knowing that there were some secrets best left buried, even from his beloved brother.

"Kíli!"

This time the cutting call was aimed at him, and he flushed before regaining his composure and raising an eyebrow at his king, silently reminding the other that it was not a young foolish dwarfling now seated before him. That one of the ruling duo of Erebor was due equal respect, not the harsh, unthinking censure of Thorin Oakenshield to his often cloudy-headed nephew who had insisted upon coming with on an adventure though he was barely of age. That, in itself, had been a struggle, for both to find an acceptable balance, and one that they occasionally still had trouble with.

"I apologize, my king, I was preoccupied. What may I do for you?"

His uncle pursed his lips at the formal tone, then rolled his own eyes at Kili's innocent, overly helpful smile, a short nod conceding his nephew's point.

"I asked what your opinion on this matter might be. Fíli and Gimli both state that we should accept their aid as a token of the tentative alliance between our peoples, while Dwalin and Therin are both against, citing the trouble it might raise within the army. I would have your thoughts upon the matter before deciding, especially as they seem so deep as to pull you from awareness of your surroundings."

That last was a backhanded rebuke, but for once, Kíli felt no need to justify himself or flush in shame. He would never have allowed his guard to drop were they not among a ring of trusted warriors, where no enemy could hope to approach, even from hiding, and Thorin knew it, having overseen that part of his nephews' training himself. Brown eyes flicked to the elves, some of whom now bore scowls for being made to wait in the hot sun, but when his gaze met that of Legolas, the elven prince gave his counterpart a slow, solemn nod, the red-head beside him tilting up her chin, as if daring him to make a comment about her presence. Finally, he returned his attention to those before him, deliberately not looking to either of his brothers, though he doubted his words would catch Fíli by surprise.

"We should accept what aid may come, Uncle. How many times did it take the diverse skills of both Legolas and Gimli to keep they and their companions' whole? And how would it have changed the course of history had they not been willing to set aside their prejudices so? Yes, there will be tensions upon both sides, but once the dwarrow of Khazad-dûm called elves friend, and I believe it is time to renew that relationship. Are we truly so bound by the more recent past that we would doom ourselves to repeat it?"

"It was that one's father who bound us in the dungeons for weeks! My cell was close enough to hear the taunts his sister spat at you daily, Kíli! And what about the insult that Celeborn pays us? Does that, too, go unanswered?"

Dwalin's fists had clenched, undoubtedly imagining the too slender neck of a certain elven princess between them, and Kíli smiled sadly. The memories of those dark days alone in a cell no longer had the power to distress him, though he would never be comfortable around elves he did not know. Nor would the larger dwarf's disapproval wither his confidence, his expression holding steady in the face of the other's glare until Dwalin just waved a hand at him in disgust. Truthfully, Kíli had found that the elves were like all the other free peoples of Middle Earth, with those who were arrogant, angry, or just plain mean.

"And for that, we are to condemn them all? If you look, Legolas has brought only those from his colony who were with him when they last visited Erebor, and we had no fights erupting in the halls then. We remember the past bitterly because they refused aid, and now we seek to turn it away when they actually offer? Do not give Thranduil and Celeborn further cause to sneer at us, Dwalin."

He had addressed his remarks to the large warrior, but out of the corner of his eye, the prince took note of the thoughtful look upon Bofur's face, and the slight smile upon Thorin's. Maybe, just maybe, he had actually gotten his points across in such a way that his king would find merit in them. Finally, his uncle caught his eye, and there was nothing of the disdainful dismissal he had long seen there, only respect.

"You make a careful assessment, Kíli. We will accept their aid, with the proviso that any who cannot handle our presence will be dismissed at our discretion. Now, for the other problem; I will speak with Legolas, but we will need some dwarrow willing to work with them besides Gimli. I leave that task to the two of you, as you can be trusted not to start a fight at the first misunderstanding."

The king gave a nod to the red head, who rolled his eyes and Kíli pursed his lips, eyes already sliding over the closest ranks, searching for particular faces. He had won the argument, but had a feeling he'd set himself up for an impossible task in return.


	5. Of Dwarrow and Elves

Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

5. Of Dwarrow and Elves

It was many long hours later when Kíli was finally able to sink onto the log next to his uncle and siblings, heartened to see Elladan, Elrohir, and Legolas also sharing their fire, though the three elves had salads and lembas instead of the thick, meaty stew that he could see his brothers digging into. It had been decided upon not to enter Khazad-dûm this day, instead staying outside the walls to ensure that their army would be ready upon the morrow, especially given their newest additions.

Tasked with ensuring the integration of their unexpected guests into the armies, which meant that they were properly assigned given their skills, it had not been an easy night for the prince. To his shock, none the elves had elected to return to Rivendell with Celeborn except his personal guard, despite the distasteful glances some had thrown at dwarrow and men alike. With that quick fix no longer an option, Gimli and Kíli had settled for discretely jotting down the names of those showing such prejudices for inclusion in the list of those who would maintain the perimeter guard and supply lines outside the mountains.

Unfortunately, both of them had been so focused upon the elven part of the equation that they had overlooked the 'plus dwarrow' part, and quickly learned that it equaled a brawl! Gimli had turned scarlet at the sight, and after barking a command to Legolas to stay with Kíli, had waded in, his right hook almost instantly persuading several of the more pugnacious on both sides to subtract themselves by the simple expedient of leaving the area. That, at least, had ended the incident with nothing more severe than several black eyes and bloody noses, but Kíli had been far from reassured. There was no need to make his uncle's concerns come to fruition so quickly because he'd once more forgotten to think! Chastened, the prince had decided to speak quietly and individually with all those dwarrow affected before the day was through. Consequently, the moon had long been up when he was at last able to find his way to the small campsite set aside for Thorin.

Wordlessly, the young dwarf with him, Bofur's son Kifir, retrieved two bowls heaped with stew that had been keeping warm next to the fire, giving one to his prince before settling himself at Kili's feet. The prince grimaced, picking at the food absently as his mind replayed the events of the day. He'd also been working with the planners whenever he had a spare moment these last few hours, including Dwalin, laying out the best way to approach the entrance to the kingdom, reading the stone to see if any surprises awaited inside the first guardroom. Unlike with Erebor, however, where he could sense the changes in the mountain with just the brush of fingertips along a rock wall, telling the shape of the stone here was akin to peering through a morning fog to sight upon the deer he hunted long ago in Ered Luin; it took intense concentration and some small amount of luck. Such efforts were also quicker to sap his strength, leaving him exhausted, hot, and cranky.

"Kíli…" Fíli's softly chiding tone broke through, making the brunette realize he had been mindlessly pushing his spoon around a rapidly cooling meal. "You should eat, little brother. Tomorrow won't be easy on any of us."

Kíli was quick to catch himself before he snapped in response, tolerating the blonde's hand on his forehead with only a low growl in his throat. He hated how he had to be looked after, worried over, now, but he also knew that his family had cause.

"Fever?"

Thorin's voice rumbled in the darkness, low and gentle, emotions few indeed associated with the rough, somewhat irritable king, though they were apt to manifest publically much more often now than before the quest. Kíli and Fíli were not the only ones irrevocably changed by what had happened; Thorin's change was all for the better, at least as far as Kíli was concerned, making the king more open, caring, and patient, though his temper had not vanished, just was held under a tighter rein.

Kili's annoyed "I'm fine!" was overridden by his brother's quick nod, to which the brunette rolled his eyes in exasperation, making a show of shoveling in a large helping of stew, though he almost gagged. Of course he had a bloody fever, when didn't he when using the abilities gifted him by the Arkenstone outside the Lonely Mountain? It was apt to make him irritable, and a bit uncomfortable, but was a small price for the benefit of knowing the layout and dangers inherent in the rooms they would be occupying, allowing the warriors to focus upon mortal enemies instead of the very rock itself. Desperately seeking a source of conversation other than his health, or lack thereof, his brown gaze lit upon the twin elves seated across from him.

"So, did the two of you ever meet any of the other Durins?"

Thorin's eyebrows shot up at the question, but then the king shrugged, turning his attention back to his meal as the others, even Dwalin, waited for a response with held breath.

"We did." A smile played at Elrohir's lips as the dwarrow all leaned unconsciously forward while he made a deliberate show of slowly chewing a bite of his salad before a growl from Dwalin convinced him he had best hastily swallow and continue. "My brother and I actually lived within Khazad-dûm for a short time when we were very young."

"It was before Arwen was born." His sibling added. "There had been hints of a traitor within our ranks, patrols ambushed in what should have been safe areas, vital supplies missing, and things like that, and Father feared for our safety."

"Durin IV offered the shelter of his halls, and Father wasn't likely to refuse, since the next closest refuge was in Lothlorien with Grandfather and Grandmother. That was even closer to Mordor, which really made Father nervous, even with the power Grandmother wielded."

"Besides, he didn't know who to trust among our own."

"But he trusted Durin,"

"…Even when others called him a fool."

As the conversational ball bounced without warning between the twins, for the first time Kíli began to appreciate Thorin's irritation when he and Fíli did such things. His head had whipped around from one to the other so many times that he was beginning to feel dizzy!

"Did Elrond find the culprit?"

Lis asked softly from where she leaned against her husband.

"Yes." Elladan's face fell, eyes sad as he stared into the darkness beyond them. "It was an elf who had been captured out on patrol, tortured by the orcs. I think it was the first time that many among us realized that just because Sauron had been defeated, the Ring taken, the war was not necessarily won."

The silence stretched as all picked up upon the meaning of those words, memories of their own flooding in. For Kíli, it was the madness in the eyes of his own brother as he forced the younger through a twisted forest after having flung a dagger at their own mother. He could not help the shudder that passed through him as he set the still half full bowl to the side, food holding no interest at all for him now. A hand, warm and solid, rested on his shoulder before giving it a squeeze, and he managed a faint smile for his uncle before the older dwarf disappeared into the darkness beyond their fire.

"But what was it like to live in Khazad-dûm? Was it as grand as the stories say it was?"

The breathless innocence of that question broke the darkness, drawing a genuine chuckle from Kíli as he fondly looked down upon the young dwarf resting at his feet, silently blessing Bofur for allowing the boy to come. Kifir was by far the youngest dwarrow with the army, not even of age yet, but he had already proven himself indispensable to his prince.

In the weeks following their return to Erebor, when Kíli once again struggled to recover from both injury and illness, Kifir had taken to spending his days with the prince, willingly doing anything that the other needed him to. Once Kíli was on his feet again, he had chased the younger dwarf off, grateful for all he had done, but unwilling to monopolize the time when he should be running and playing like any other child, though Kifir had continued to spend a few hours each week with the prince.

That changed permanently the year after their return to the mountain. Kíli, determined to prove that he was not too young and inexperienced for the position he now held, as he knew some older dwarrow felt, had been working hard to aid in the redesign of their principle iron mine, ignoring the twinges his nerves had been sending all day. His luck failed on one of the staircases back to the royal apartments, sending him tumbling down the stone while several miners, Bifur, and Fíli all watched in horror, helpless to stop his fall. Dis later confided to her son what had been discussed during those dark hours while they waited for him to wake, to know if once again he would be alright.

"_He can't continue pushing so hard. He's not sleeping some nights because he's in too much pain, but when I try to help, he brushes me off!"_

_Fíli was close to tears, though it was a toss-up as to whether it was from frustration, fear, or anger. Next to him, Austri tightly clutched his hand, the other running soothingly up and down her love's back in an attempt to provide at least some comfort._

"_Kili's always been stubborn, just like my brother was, we've known that since he was born." Vili smiled slightly, "We can't force him to take the pain draughts or stop doing his duty, but we could find someone to aid him, be his legs."_

"_He won't accept that."_

_Thorin's deep rumble filled the room, making the unconscious dwarf in the bed stir slightly. All of them held their breath, but Kíli settled back into stillness with only a soft mewl of pain, eyes never opening._

"_I can do it. He let me before, last year, and I like to be of help. Please, Father? Lord Thorin?"_

_Truthfully, the adults in the room had completely forgotten about Bofur's older son, __who had__ been with his father when the summons came saying the younger ruling prince had suffered an accident. Just turned forty-three, the young dwarf was at an age where he was trying different crafts and occupations, looking for one that would suit him, at which time his parents would negotiate a twenty year apprenticeship with his master, as was traditional. Kifir, however, had seemed unable to settle, constantly coming back to aiding his father with his job as principle advisor to the two princes. Now, the others' eyes lit up at the potential solution, waiting to hear what Bofur had to say at the notion. The older dwarf, in turn, looked hard at his son, drawing the youngster up to stand in front of him, his father's hands on his shoulders._

"_Are you certain this is what you want, Kifir? If you say yes, it will be the same as a regular apprenticeship, you will be learning laws and governing. What about your wood carving?"_

_Kifir squarely met his father's eyes, a maturity showing there that belied his age._

"_I like to carve, but it is more of a distraction at the end of the day than a true life's work, Father. I miss being able to work with Prince Kíli, and I found that the laws and things fascinated me. I've been reading some of the history of our kingdom on my own and the Lore Keeper says I have a remarkable understanding of it for one so young. Please, let me do this?"_

_All Bofur could do was nod, eyes filled with tears at this unexpected turn, and the thought of his little one so grown up and responsible. A hand clapped down hard on the boy's shoulder, and he found himself looking up into the face of Erebor's Warmaster, the redoubtable Master Dwalin._

"_I'd best set up a time with Nast and Nori for your lessons, then, lad."_

"_Lessons?"_

"_Aye, if you're to be the prince's aid, it also means you'll be his last defense should there be another assassination attempt. Best you know how to keep him and yourself alive."_

Kíli had not been at all pleased, at first, with the idea of someone, even Kifir, with him constantly, but it soon became so natural that the prince could not imagine life any other way. Consequently, he was doubly grateful to see the eager eyes of his aid shining as he asked the breathless question of the elf twins, because Bofur would have been within his rights as parent to demand that Kifir be left behind in Erebor. The twins both laughed, but before either could begin to answer, a voice, deep and confident with an odd lilting accent, answered from behind them.

"I only hope that one day you may see it as even a quarter of what it once was, young one. Though we had to build a rock barrier around Durin's Falls and the spring. This one," A blunt finger tapped Elladan on the head as the elf's face tinged pink, ducking slightly to hide his embarrassment. "Kept falling in whenever his minder's back was turned. I knew elves had an unhealthy fondness for forests, but I did not know it extended to attempting to become part fish!"

Even as all assembled there smiled at the verbal jab, except Elladan, a chill passed through them, making even the blazing fire seem momentarily cold as the features of the dwarf who had spoken flickered and morphed in the shadows. Another step, however, and the stranger became Thorin, who stumbled as if abruptly dizzy, one hand resting on Elladan's shoulder for balance. As soon as he was aware of what he was doing, the hand was yanked back as if scorched, and the king clomped over to settle down with a scowl and a full mug.

"What?!"

There was a long pause as no one answered, Kili's eyes still wide with shock as he searched his uncle's face for any sign of the other who had been standing in his place moments before. Finally, Elrohir cleared his throat, voice barely above a whisper.

"We had not known that the memories of the other Durins were so strong within you, Lord Thorin."

Kíli could not help feeling some small relief at the elf's statement, as it implied they, at least, had seen something like this before. Beside him, Fíli let out a long held breath, relaxing slightly as well. At least until Thorin frowned at all of them, stiffening.

"I'm not certain what you mean by that."

"You just- You were- "

Therin's spluttering was abruptly cut off by a well-aimed elbow from Lis, making Kíli duck his head to avoid misplaced laughter even as he tried to quell his hysteria at what had just occurred. Only twice before had he witnessed his uncle speaking as though one of the other Durins, and both times Thorin had been in a half-sleeping, trance-like state, which the king had remembered only as a dream. Kíli had not had the courage or strength to deal with it at the time, avoiding the entire issue by politely listening to his uncle relate his 'dream'. Afterward, there had been other concerns, and somehow a past incident had never been a priority. Fortunately, his uncle seemed inclined to allow the odd behavior of his companions to pass unremarked, instead raising a pointed eyebrow at his youngest nephew when Therin could not seem to hold back a yawn.

"You should seek your bedroll, Therin. We enter our kingdom tomorrow, and our people will be looking to you and me to lead them. You must be prepared to assume your birthright as both a prince of Durin and my heir."

For a moment, it looked as though Therin was going to fight the directive, a scowl crossing his features, but Lis said something quietly in his ear that made the prince roll his eyes before turning to his uncle with a pleasant, though forced, 'Good night.' The deliberately heavy stomp of his feet, however, was an action Kíli would have expected from his seven year old son, not his ninety-one year old brother. The sigh that followed from Thorin was heavy, and exasperated, making Fíli, Dwalin, and Bofur all chuckle.

"It was once Kíli and I you so despaired of, uncle, but look at how we have turned out. He'll mature with time and the realities of what we face retaking Khazad-dûm, just as we did on the journey to Erebor."

Kíli bit his lip at some rather unflattering comments that he was sorely tempted to blurt out, but held his peace. Across from them, Thorin only shook his head, turning to the elves and Dwalin to discuss the plan for the morning and leaving Kíli to his thoughts. The prince knew that his brother had been very sheltered, not even facing the harsh lessons of life in exile as he and Fíli did, but something about Therin's attitude would not stop bothering him. The boy was due for some cave-ins; he only begged Mahal that the lessons taught by them would not come to his youngest sibling at the same high cost as his own.


	6. Where Lanterns Once Burned

Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

6. Where Once Lanterns Burned

The first steps of Lord Durin Returned into his ancient kingdom were less than majestic; he staggered, hands grabbing to hold him upright as his head seemed to explode internally into a whirlwind. Around the king, the stone walls illuminated by flickering torches seemed to ripple as if alive, one moment appearing roughhewn and uncompleted, the next covered in opulent velvet banners, then morphing to be sheathed in the gleam of copper.

Voices rang in his ears as ghostly figures faded in and out of sight, hammer and chisel expertly wielded pounding a counter beat to the cacophony of languages. The rough shouts of dwarrow sounded from all sides, to be answered by the light baritone of a Man, unseen, or the musical lilt of elves giving way to the high, almost childlike patter of hobbits, all overridden by the harsh gutturals of orcs and goblins. Thorin hit his knees hard, hands reaching to try to block some of the noise even as he squeezed eyes shut, fighting to connect with what was real, where in time he truly was, who he was…

Hands, hard as stone and just as real, were upon his shoulders, digging in harshly enough to leave bruises as someone demanded that he open his eyes, hot breath upon the king's face. The command was gruff, but the voice was one he should know, that should be almost as familiar as his own.

"Thorin! Answer me!"

It was the name that snapped the king finally from the memories long enough to open his eyes, latching onto the face inches from his own with a stare that greedily drank in every tattoo and scar. The king brought his hands up to lightly press into the other's forearms, but he could not yet bring himself to speak, too many other voices and faces flickering in the periphery of his vision. The other scowled, giving his king another shake with a low growl of frustration before turning his focus to someone behind Thorin.

"Help me get him up and out of here!"

"N-no."

Dwalin. It was Dwalin, his oldest friend and shield brother, who held him upright, and he was Thorin Oakenshield, Durin VII. Slowly, the dwarf forced away the memories, staring hard at the walls behind his friend until they stayed the bare stone, slightly scarred from fighting, and the skeletons remained, no longer changing into guards or workers. Finally, he tightened his hand slightly on Dwalin's arm, meeting the other's searching gaze squarely, the words of the elven twins from the night before running through his mind.

"I am well. I'd not expected the memories to be so strong."

Dwalin did not look at all happy, but he nodded, lending a strong arm when Thorin sought to stand, aided on the other side by Fíli. There were not many whom Thorin had told the full truth to- that each reincarnation of Durin possessed the memories of those who had come before, and that occasionally those bits of history would be more real to him than the present he was in. It had been a direct assault upon Thorin's core identity that had taken years to fully come to terms with, and he thought he had learned to control when it came upon him. Apparently, he was wrong.

Stumbling slightly, the king went through the respectfully parted guards to run a hand along the wall, trying to look casual as he used the touch to not only support wavering steps, but ground himself in this time. Dwalin and his three nephews were almost tripping over each other in their attempts to hover close by. Thorin's voice was soft, barely carrying to his companions, as he put words to the chaos in his mind.

"I see our kin, so long ago, hewing and shaping these very stones, but it overlaps with so many other memories, those who have been greeted here, both friend and foe that it is hard to sort out."

"This is the first place you've been where all six of the other Durins have walked."

There was a sense of awe to Kili's tone that brought a slight smile to his uncle's face, who had often been the one to have a lap full of dwarfling on cold winter nights, the tiny brunette begging for more stories of Durin even as he struggled to keep sagging eyes open so that his uncle or mother would not banish him to bed instead. Fíli, who had been learning of their history in lessons with Balin, had rolled his eyes and continued to play by the fire, uninterested, but Kíli had snuggled in, content and secure in a way he was at few other times. The memories lightened his mood momentarily before darkening again as he fingered a scar out of the rock, most likely caused by a weapon missing its target.

"Bofur, sort through any armor or weapons for dwarrow make, and set them aside. Discard the filth, see if our smiths can use it for base stock. Dwalin, find some volunteers to remove the orc and goblin bodies beyond the valley and burn them. Fíli, if any of the remains are dwarrow, see if you can find anything upon them to aid in identification and see to proper treatment until they can be entombed with honor. Kíli, I want you and Therin to accompany the team to the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, you have command." Thorin turned to pin Legolas with a glare, easy enough when the elf was taller than all around him. "No one goes across without Kili's approval, no exceptions!"

The king had definitely not forgotten the elf's scramble across an ancient and potentially very unstable bridge in Mirkwood forest! The tall prince, however, merely raised an eyebrow at him, clearly unrepentant. Thorin grit his teeth, but chose not to press the issue, transferring his scowl to Kíli, who grimaced, but nodded.

Knowing of the damage done by the battle between Gandalf and the Balrog, Thorin had spent several weeks during the winter exploring potential solutions with Erebor's finest engineers. They had decided that the answer to not only that issue, but all the gaps in the deteriorating corridors could best be dealt with by the construction of temporary bridges. Several teams had been created with grappling hooks to throw across. It was then Kili's job to read the stone and ensure that the hook was secure before allowing the most agile to cross with more ropes, then place a wooden span across.

In this, at least, the inclusion of the elves was an aid unlooked for, as few could so easily cross a rope with as little risk as their fleet-footed warriors. Also, elven archers would take their places alongside those of the dwarrow, with bows of longer range and keen eyes even in the dim light. That there were dwarrow who could match them with a bow at all had been a shock to some, but not all that surprising given that it was the favored weapon of their younger ruling prince.

Kíli had taken to holding impromptu lessons with any dwarrow who cared to appear on the range one afternoon a week. Both Fíli and Thorin had been concerned, at first, remembering only too well the many times other dwarflings had taunted the brunette for his choice of weapon, but it seemed that the mountain was ready to embrace change, even if that meant the use of an 'elven' bow. That it allowed the prince to practice with a weapon that would not unduly strain his back and legs as the footwork and stances involved with swords would was quietly noted, but never spoken aloud.

Tasks assigned, the king finally allowed himself the luxury of sinking to an out of the way piece of rock, the memories too strong to deny any longer.

"_I, Durin, Lord of Khazad-dûm, welcome the sons of my six brothers to my kingdom! Enter!"_

_With a dramatic flourish of the king's hands, dwarrow pulled the cloth that had covered the openings high on the mountain's sides, bathing the room in light with their lord at the center. In front of him, the first representatives of the other six dwarrow kingdoms gazed around in awe, making Durin beam in pride at his people's accomplishments. _

_It had __not even been__ two hundred years since he led them from Gundabad, from the place of his awakening, to start chipping away at the back of a rude rock cave. Less than a single dwarf's lifespan, and there was now a network of thirty rooms sheltering all from the winter weather, heated by the blaze of multiple forges working the iron pulled from two mines. Soon, there would be a true city within, one that any of his brothers would envy, yet it was not in Durin's make-up to dream so small. No, even the model in front of him, lit by the sun coming from above, was but a small portion of the kingdom he meant to build here, a city to hold not hundreds of dwarrow, but thousands! The greatest wealth of Middle Earth lay waiting to be discovered here, to forge the finest of weapons, the most beautiful of ornaments!_

_Yes, indeed, he had only just begun!_

_Still grinning broadly enough to make the muscles in his face actually ache, he turned then to his taller guest, sunlight highlighting the elf's dark hair with glints of purplish-blue, the same color as the armor he wore._

_"Well?" Eöl, who, Durin had noted, made a habit of tweaking others to provoke them, simply smirked, making the dwarrow king roll his eyes, smile dimming just a bit. "Are you going to answer me, or stand there being as infuriating as those pain in the neck cousins of yours settling in the forests beyond?"_

_If the tall Teleri elf wished to play games, well, never let it be said that Durin backed down from any competition! Besides, it was just plain entertaining to rile the solitary elf who had wandered Middle Earth early on, making his living by his smithing. And such work it was, too! The king could not help admiring the armor that the other wore, a black metal that the dwarf actually did not recognize, though it was clearly very flexible. Eöl bristled in mock-outrage, as the king knew he would. There was no love lost between the Nandor or Dana elves and the Teleri, though neither were all that forthcoming as to why._

_"No kin of mine! Just for that, I might not share the secret of the armor I wear with you after all!"_

_"Hmm..." Durin forced himself to remain still, not showing any hint of the curiosity that was all but eating him alive. "Maybe I shouldn't say anything about this, then."_

_Opening his fist, the king displayed the small medallion he had just retrieved from his pocket, white metal gleaming with its own inner light. Mithril, they had named it, a pure silver like unto no other metal in all of Middle Earth. Durin chuckled as the elf's eyes widened fractionally before he caught himself and gave the dwarf a rueful grin._

_"Well, now that we've thoroughly provoked one another, shall we join the others? Your vassals seem uninclined to wait upon their king's pleasure."_

_Durin merely grunted, waving the elf through the smaller secondary guard room, with its huge metal doors, and into the grand reception room beyond, where tables groaning under their loads of food were rapidly filling with dwarrow. The king waved several dwarrow who had finally noted the presence of their monarch back to their meal before turning to the elf._

_"Never stand between dwarrow and the first mug of ale and leg of meat; no respect, the lot of them."_

_ ******* The Hobbit *******_

"_Why do you bring me such a being?"_

_Durin V boomed out, hearing his deep bass rumbling in echoes from the far corners of the chamber and making the quaking captive in his guard's hold let out an undignified squawk. Gone were the days when this chamber served as a grand reception room, copper covered walls refracting the light to bath the finest of Khazad craftsmanship displayed there in its glow. Now, the only items adorning the walls were racks of well-used weapons, kept razor sharp should they need to stand between their people and an invader, be it orc, man, or dragon. The destruction of Sauron before his iron tower had not brought the peace that the Last Alliance had so desperately sought, for greed had been too deeply lodged in some to ever stop grasping for what was not theirs. _

"_A thief, lord, caught attempting to steal from the back of our wagons."_

_Durin grunted at that. The wagons that ran between the main kingdom and their settlements in the Grey Mountains were encountering more and more trouble, both from bandits and the drakes that inhabited the nearby Withered Heath, though only two of those monsters had been seen in the last one hundred years. Now, a full guard company of fifty dwarrow went with each wagon, where only twenty years ago, ten would have sufficed. If this continued, they might have no choice but to abandon the northern halls, at least for the foreseeable future. To be faced with those attempting to steal before the wagons had even been fully loaded and were still upon the doorstep of the city, however, was a new problem._

_The culprit had evidently gotten over his fright, glaring defiantly at the king. It was a creature nearly a head shorter than most dwarrow, and bearded, though it did not have the length and elegance of one grown by those of Durin's own clan. Scruffy clothing of the style favored by the children of Gondor and the unwashed knots of hair spoke of a hard life, as did large, wary brown eyes, though this was no child of Man. It could not be, for the feet of the creature were either out of all proportion to its size or it favored absurdly made foot-wear! The king swept his eyes up and down the thing, allowing a bit of a sneer to curl his lips._

"_What is this, then? Half of a goblin, a hob-goblin? Or some new twisting of the race of Men?"_

_The guard laughed heartily at their king's sally, but the creature bristled, drawing himself up as if attempting some form of intimidation, though the results were more comic than threatening._

"_I am not of Men; disgusting, loud brutes tramping through where they don't belong! And I most certainly am not a goblin!"_

_For all its raggedy appearance, the words were precise, with none of the lazy slur of the uneducated. As if suddenly aware that he should not have spoken, the captive clamped his mouth shut with an exaggerated snap, glaring at the king as if such a lapse were his fault. Durin slowly circled him one more time before stopping and sticking his face in very close, making the small being flinch._

"_And what did our half of something attempt to steal, exactly?"_

_The king hoped to hear that it had been merely food, for times had been hard throughout Middle Earth, and he would be able to go lightly on the little creature, maybe even send him away with some journey bread. If it __had not__ been for the shoes and beard, __he would__ have sworn this was one of the Harfoots, the shy race that lived to their north, or one of their cousins, the Fallohides. Neither of those, however, would have been forced to steal from Durin's Folk to feed their kin, as they were the main source of the __dwarrow's__ own freshly grown food. They, in turn, received forged goods and protection, should they need it, from the dwarrow, a fair trade upon both sides._

"_This silver horn, my lord, meant as a gift for the peoples of the far north."_

_Durin's heart sank at the words, even as he accepted the finely wrought item. It was some of the best work of his smiths, with images of horsemen from mouth to tip, and would make a fine statement in the halls of the north, encouraging those somewhat odd Men to purchase dwarrow-made goods. The craftsmanship by itself made it worth a small dragon's hoard, without the enchantment that had been embedded within that would stir the hearts of allies while quelling those of their foes. Hand tightening around the horn, he whirled back on the thief, making the small being squawk in fright once more._

"_It will go easier for you if you tell me your name and race!"_

_Defiant brown eyes stared back at him, mouth clammed shut in a parody of a stubborn dwarfling refusing to eat his greens. The king sighed, then snorted in disgust, any sympathy the other might have won now gone._

"_Well, you are certainly only half of something. An 'It', then. Guards, take this… half-it… this…Hob-It…to the cells. Make sure he is fed, and dunk him in a trough once or twice along the way. There is no need to dirty our dungeons just because our guest does not know the use of soap and water."_

The derisive nickname for the small being rang over and over in Thorin's ears as he jolted back to the present to find a puzzled Frodo Baggins standing near, one hand upon his arm. Twisting around, the king grabbed the startled hobbit's arm, making light blue eyes widen in shocked alarm. Before Frodo could speak, Thorin overrode him, some of the urgency and disquiet felt by the elder Durin leaching into his stance and voice.

"What do you know of the history of your race? You did not always live in the Shire!"

"I- No, we did not." Frodo relaxed slightly at the apparently innocuous question, gaining the slightly abstract look the dwarf knew well from being around Bilbo when he was searching his memory for some tidbit or other read long ago. "There aren't any actual records from before the founding of the Shire, but tradition holds that our people originally lived somewhere in the East, near the Anduin. There were three groups, somewhat different from one another- the Fallohides, Harfoots, and Stoors. Why?"

Thorin barely registered the return question, mind latching onto the final name.

"Stoors? What were they like?"

For some reason, the hobbit paled, then flushed, fidgeting until Thorin allowed him to pull his arm loose. When he spoke, it was while looking at his own feet, not at the king.

"Gandalf once said that they were fisher folk, living near the Gladden Fields on the banks of the Anduin."

"And did they grow beards? And wear shoes?"

Frodo finally glanced up in startlement at that, blinking rapidly as if he had something caught in his eye, and Thorin pretended not to see the glint of tears, finally realizing that his questions had somehow upset the other. The hobbit heaved a deep breath, seeming to settle, and smiled slightly.

"The oldest stories said that they did, yes. They were the ancestors of the Brandybucks and others who settled in Buckland, which is why most of the rest of the Shire considers them very odd. Thorin-"

Once more, the dwarf cut him off.

"And the name 'hobbit'? Where did that come from?"

Now the other shook his head, shrugging, though blue eyes bore into the dwarf king intently, assessing.

"I've no idea, though Merry and King Eomer both think that it came from the Rohirrim's name for us, 'Hoblyta' or hole-dwellers. Thorin… should I find Fíli or Kíli? You don't seem yourself, and you were muttering 'hobbit' over and over. That's why I'm here, one of the others thought you were calling for me."

Thorin could not help the bitter twist to his lips at that, remembering too well when 'hobbit' was one of the nicer names he had given Bilbo. On a bad day, it would have been a derisive 'halfling' instead, especially as the gold sickness grew and the burglar had the temerity to question his actions. Feeling the weight of the past, he laid a gentle hand on Frodo's arm, deeply missing the white-haired old hobbit who was reflected so clearly in many of this one's mannerisms.

"No, Master Baggins, I am fine. The memories provoked here were simply… unexpected. How are you doing, truly? Being here once more cannot be easy, which is why I'd not thought to ask you before you approached me about coming with."

Few things could truly shock Thorin anymore, but the words of this hobbit one cold evening last winter had certainly been one of them, offering to ride here once more! True, this had not been the most traumatic part of that already legendary journey for Frodo, but it could not have been easy, either, especially when he witnessed the fall of Gandalf. As much as Thorin and the old wizard had butted heads throughout the journey to Erebor, he had also been conscious of and respected the other's power. He would not have believed anything short of Sauron himself could take on the Istari and not fall immediately, even Smaug, had Gandalf felt himself at liberty to deal personally with the dragon. The wizard could not, and Thorin had known as much before ever setting out, though he had stayed silent about it to his companions, uncertain if any would follow had they known in Bilbo's cozy hole that the dragon would be theirs to deal with. Or, more accurately, Bilbo's.

Reminded once more of the debt he owed his friend, the king drew himself away from his own thoughts long enough to make his own assessment of his companion, pleased with what he saw. Whatever had so disturbed Bilbo's nephew earlier, he showed no sign of it now, cheeks glowing a healthy pink and blue eyes bright. While the Arkenstone had healed the wounds inflicted on Frodo by the blade of the Witch-king and the sting of Shelob at the same time it healed Kíli, Fíli, and Thorin, the hobbit still bore psychological scars so deep that his health was occasionally affected, leaving them to worry as much about him as they did about Kíli.

It was for that reason, Bilbo had confided to Thorin as he neared his death that he believed Frodo had been unable to settle once more in the Shire after the war. Frodo somehow felt that he had been tainted by his contact with the Ring, unworthy of staying within such innocence as the Shire. Why he had rejected the elves' offer of healing in the Undying Lands, Bilbo did not know, asking Thorin to watch over his nephew as much as possible after the older hobbit was gone. Frodo looked down, one hand worrying the stub of his missing finger, as the king had noted he so often did when lost in the darker memories. Reaching over, Thorin stilled the hands, making Frodo raise his head, the words so softly spoken the king could not be certain he meant them to be heard.

"So many of the memories of the journey are fragmented, twisted by the - by It... The nightmares..." He finally focused on Thorin's face. "Aragorn recommended that I try to... confront them? Replace them? I don't know. I just-"

A hand held up cut off the hobbit's partially introspective ramble.

"I understand as much as I need to. Just know that should it become too much, you've only to speak to me. We will provide escort to wherever you wish."

The other flushed, head dropping as the fingers on his right hand resumed rubbing that horrible scar on his left, the king making no move to stop him this time, though he wished to. He was not Frodo's uncle, no matter Bilbo's dying wishes, and could never be to this self-contained young hobbit who thought so many more things than were ever said aloud or even hinted upon on his face.

Hobbits, Thorin had learned the hard way, did not display their inner emotions as readily as dwarrow did, especially the darker ones, instead allowing them to stew silently inside for days or even years before finally bursting forth through the cracks. The forwardness Bilbo had picked up during his travels with the dwarrow was just one more mark against him when he returned to the Shire, though Thorin would have dearly loved to see the faces of some of that stuffy, insular land when the old hobbit so famously insulted them at his last birthday party there! Patiently, he waited out his younger companion, and Frodo obligingly bit his lip, finally bursting out words with an intensity and self-criticism that might have shocked those who only saw the dignified, shy hero.

"I do not know why you all insist upon that! I am no noble or great hero, to be fussed over and escorted everywhere, just a simple hobbit who had the bad luck to inherent a bit of cursed jewelry!"

Thorin could not help the laugh that erupted at the other's self-effacement, knowing that some of it was honest puzzlement, though he quickly turned it into a series of coughs covered by his hand to hide the accompanying smile. This attracted the attention of his youngest and oldest nephews, who joined the king and flushing hobbit at his indulgent wave. Fíli raised an eyebrow at the two as they joined them, one hand casually resting upon Therin's shoulder in the same unconscious intimacy that the golden prince had always shown the brother he had been raised with. At least those two were getting along, the king noted absently, not bothering to question why Therin was there instead of with Kíli as he had ordered, mind still upon the hobbit at his side. Finally regaining control he gestured at Frodo, raising his own eyebrow at the newcomers.

"This one claims to be but a simple hobbit, and cannot understand the fuss raised by whomever's court he is in when he wishes to leave."

Therin started to chuckle, throwing his arm around the hobbit even as Fíli rolled his eyes.

"I don't believe there is such a thing as 'just a hobbit.' Bilbo often claimed the same, and look what he accomplished!"

"Besides," Therin added with a malicious grin at his slightly shorter friend. "Bilbo taught us that the definition of the word 'hero' was one who had the courage to face adversity and the compassion to do it for unselfish reasons. Last I looked, walking into Mordor with just Sam certainly qualifies… well, that, or completely insane."

"And that warrants having guards everywhere? I rather think it proves that I can handle myself, instead!"

"Walk yourself into unending trouble, you mean." The young prince snorted. "I think Aragorn started the escorts in self-defense, so he wouldn't have to be constantly riding off to get you out of trouble! After all, who was it that decided a picnic in the middle of the Barrow Downs was a good idea? Or throwing a rock into the hornet's nest above a sleeping Lobelia Sackville-Baggins' head? Or sneaking off by himself to walk to Mordor even though he had to ask Gandalf which direction to turn going out of Rivendell? Or the time-"

"I never should have allowed you to read my book, you're worse than Pippin!" Frodo cut the other off in exasperation, giving his childhood playmate a shove while he was at it. "Stupid dwarf!"

Thorin winced, unsure of how his dark-haired nephew would react to that given the statements the boy had made the day before, but Therin just grinned, shoving right back.

"Silly hobbit!"


	7. Bridge to the Abyss

Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

7. Bridge to the Abyss

"This way, my lords."

Thorin was amused, though he was careful not to allow it to show. Having a dwarf lead them was unnecessary, as he could probably find his way through much of the ancient realm in pitch darkness without a qualm, but he let it pass. There would be a time, probably soon, when he would have to allow it to be widely known that he held the memories of his previous incarnations, but it would keep for now. Let his people get used to not only being within the city, which was already making many jump at shadows, but also working with elves and men, not to mention the magic imbued in the very stones here.

Walking the diagonal hallway from the gate room, Thorin ran his fingers along one hall, memories, or at least pieces of them, darting through his mind. So much history, here, forgotten and waiting to be rediscovered – triumphs and tragedies, death and new life, friends and enemies, it set his head spinning just to think of it. How many of the old tales and legends would prove true? Two more small rooms, and then the mountain opened up before them, ceiling so high that their lanterns could not find its height, and an abyss that plunged into endless darkness at their feet.

The bridge, as Frodo and other members of the Fellowship had warned, was broken; a thin span of rock jutting out into nowhere, the other side too far for even an elf to leap. Beside him, the king heard a soft noise of distress from the hobbit. Gimli and Legolas were quick to step to his side before any others could react, speaking soothing words too soft for the king to hear. To Thorin's other hand, Fíli stood gaping in astonishment at the sight before him, one hand immediately going to Kili's shoulder as the brunette hung back, almost seeming reluctant to re-enter the room.

Not that Thorin blamed him. There was a feeling about this place; a sadness, and distaste that was hard to fathom unless one knew of the events that had taken place here. The fall of an Istari in a fight with one of the oldest, and strongest, of Morgoth's allies could not help but imbue the very stone with an echo of sorrow. The oldest prince ran a hesitant hand over the wall nearest to him, walking up to the very edge of the split in the floor, where it ran off into the mountain.

"This is impressive. I wonder-"

"Fíli, I need you over here."

Kíli cut his brother off abruptly, waving from where he stood by the foot of the span, looking as if he would rather be anywhere else, even Mirkwood. One hand held his walking stick so tightly that the knuckles were white, the wood shaking slightly with the strain of the weight he was pressing on it, while the other wrapped around his torso, as someone would who was trying very hard not to be ill. The prince's face was pale, with only the barest hint of two pink fever spots on his cheeks giving it any life, though his eyes were steady, determined.

Not for the first time, Thorin felt a stirring of unease about his decision to allow his older two nephews to be here, but brown eyes met his own with a silent warning not to say anything. The king pursed his lips, but reluctantly nodded, glad the other at least had the sense to request his older brother's presence when he determined just how disturbing reading the stone where such evil walked might be. The Kíli who had first rode from the Blue Mountains on the quest for Erebor would have simply, and mulishly, plunged in, determined to do for himself no matter the cost, never realizing that such actions did nothing to prove his adulthood to the others.

Now, the brunette prince knelt to touch the stone of the ancient causeway, hand visibly trembling as he did so, and Thorin almost called to him to stop. As many times as he had now witnessed Kili's abilities, it still seemed somewhat uncanny, even for a dwarf. Usually, it took several minutes of concentration, the others gathered staying respectfully, though skeptically on the part of the men, silent. This time, however, the prince almost instantly jerked backward with a startled cry, only his older brother's quick reflexes keeping him from tumbling onto his backside. Kíli did not seem aware of anyone else, shaking his hand as if it burned, body trembling and eyes locked on the bridge remnants. Thorin was next to them from one breath to the next, hand reaching for his younger nephew's shoulder.

"Kíli? What is it?"

He breathed, though he need not have asked after getting a good look at the other dwarf's face. It was pinched and white, breathing rapid, and eyes horror-filled. Thorin knew with a sinking certainty what the other must have become a silent witness to. Over the other prince's head, Fíli's blue gaze sought out that of his uncle, worried and questioning. Thorin swallowed hard.

"The Balrog were Maia, Fíli. Servants of the Valar, even as Gandalf was, and Sauron. Such power – and evil – cannot walk fully revealed without leaving a permanent echo in the very stones."

It was Durin I's knowledge that he now passed on, and he could feel the dwarrow Father's anger and disgust at the defiling of his home, powerful enough to give test to even Thorin's legendary control. That one had faced such creatures head on, and the thought of one within Khazad-dûm… Instead, he focused on Kíli lest he lose himself to the past once more, relaxing slightly as the prince's eyes at last seemed to take on awareness of his surroundings. He should never have allowed his nephew in here, never asked this of him! Why did the knowledge of the other Durins always seem to come too late? The prince fumbled momentarily, then tried to force himself to his feet.

"Kíli, you shouldn't-"

A quick wave of the hand, almost cutting the air in its sharpness, stopped Fíli's inevitable protest. The brunette turned to look about him, as if searching for something.

"I need a piece of rock larger than a fist."

His voice was a bit hoarse, but steady, even as his request sent the others scrambling. Balan, the ranger, was the first to step forward, holding out a bit of broken wall with the elaborate scrollwork still intact.

"Will this do?"

He asked the prince softly, getting a nod as Kíli took the thing and tossed it with one smooth movement. All eyes followed the rock as it sailed through the air in a gentle arc to land on the bridge where Frodo, Legolas, and Gimli remembered last seeing Gandalf the Grey. Instead of simply bouncing off the bridge, however, the stone it landed on cracked with the sound of a firework exploding and crumbled to fall into the darkness below. Kili's whole body shuddered once more under his hand before the prince finally turned to look at him.

"The whole bridge is unstable, a trap waiting for the unwary. We'll need to use the full rope bridge, instead."

"One of us could have been on that!"

A voice breathed from behind them, setting off low, earnest muttering among the waiting dwarrow, elves and men. Thorin grimaced, knowing that there would be no moving his nephew from the mountain now, but resigned to it. Kíli had never been one to let go of something once he had determined to do it, a stubbornness inherent in the line of Durin that Thorin had frequent reason to curse!

"This room looks as if it were built before the abyss was here."

The comment from the brunette drew the attention of several of the dwarrow nearest them, including Bofur, who ran one hand along the wall, much as Fíli had earlier.

"You're right, lad. Thorin?"

The king swallowed against a mouth gone suddenly bone dry, memories filling him at that slight prompt, images that provoked a past horror of his own.

_Second Age, 1421_

_"My Lord! The gates are destroyed, the creature is inside the mountain!"_

_Durin II cursed as he jerked around at the message, fury and impatience rising in equal measure, heedless of the inarticulate noise of protest from his grandson, who had been buckling the rerebraces on his grandfather's upper arms._

_"The archers?"_

_The king demanded, impatience radiating from him, though there were none who were quite so adapt at all the buckles and pieces as the younger dwarf. The runner, anonymous in his barbute helm, shook his head, still gasping for breath after his run up the guard stair._

_"Th-the...they bounce off the creature's hide as if it were mithril!"_

_"But it does not have wings?"_

_His grandson, already marked by irrefutable signs as Durin III, demanded as he finally managed to grab hold of his king's flailing hand long enough to wrestle it into the last bit of mithril armor. The dwarf lord grunted, not quite sure why it mattered if the beast had wings, as it would not find itself able to fly far within these walls. Of more concern to him, at least, was whether this was a fire drake, or one of its lesser kin._

"_Any sign of breathing fire?" _

_He quickly overrode his heir's words, absently wondering once more if the boy had addled his brain from being hit too many times in training. The messenger was quick to shake his head, relief evident._

"_Neither."_

"_Then maybe it's not truly a dragon?"_

_The prince asked as he handed him the glittering mithril ax that matched the armor he wore, both handed down from the original Durin, and said only to be used or worn by those of the name lest they betray the bearer so presumptuous as to assume he could walk in place of the king._

"_Not all dragons have wings." The king grunted, rolling his eyes, "Nor will most weapons penetrate their scales unless you strike the underbelly." Turning to his heir, he raised a pointed eyebrow as his helm was set into place. "That is, unless you'd rather try for the inside of the mouth."_

"_Ah, no." _

_Durin III returned drily, hefting his own weapon before waving his grandfather to proceed him, which was all the invitation that the older dwarf needed to start a sprint toward the site of the battle. Behind the king came the thunder of armor as more warriors fell in behind, scrambling to keep up in their much heavier steel. _

_For too many years now, Khazad-dûm had been a kingdom under siege, the vile, twisted creatures who had once made up Morgoth's armies taking delight in striking at the dwarrow and their stone fortress, but this was the first time they had seen a dragon this far to the south. Normally, it was the infernal orcs and goblins, both of which bred like rabbits, or the lumbering trolls, ambushing their settlements or the joint patrols that they ran with the elves of Eregion, but the world seemed to be growing darker once more, as if some lieutenant of Morgoth's yet lived, stirring up strife._

_The rumble of the very bedrock of the mountain almost knocked the king to the floor, only grabbing fast to his grandson holding the older dwarf up as all of them stopped, gazing about in shocked alarm. The king, however, grit his teeth, muttering several curses in Khuzdul before giving the prince's arm a shake._

_"Come on, boy. This one's a strong one. If we don't get there fast, he could bring down the entire mountainside!"_

_That seemed to snap the other dwarf out of his stupor, both royals briefly outdistancing those guards who had not been as lucky about keeping to their feet. From ahead of them rang the sounds of battle- the sharp clang of metal on stone, the grunts and cries of pain, shouted warnings and the roar of the mighty beast._

_Skidding down the last hall and through the doorway of the main feasting and reception hall on the main level, it was only a fast dodge and shove by the prince that prevented the king from being swept instantly off his feet by the huge scaled tail. The first sight of the dragon took Durin's breath away, the thing filling most of a room normally able to seat over 300 dwarrow, standing easily twenty feet high at the shoulder with a head the size of a wagon. It was completely covered in bronze scales that flashed hints of silver-grey around the belly. Had the creature not been attempting to destroy his city, it was a sight that would have taken away many a dwarrow breath at the sheer beauty, a vision of metallic sculpture fit for the finest king's hall._

_That such intelligent, beautiful beasts had been so corrupted by Morgoth that there was no chance of redemption was one of the tragedies of the First Age of Middle Earth. Men claimed that the dragons had to have been created by Morgoth, but dwarrow records stated otherwise, written by Durin I himself long before. Morgoth, or Melkor as he was originally called, had never been granted the power to create, only to twist and corrupt, as he had when elves became the first orcs and dwarrow were twisted into monstrous trolls only to be returned to the stone from which they were made at the first touch of sunlight. No amount of beauty or pity, however, would keep the king from killing the thing._

_"You cannot win, dark creature! Leave this place and I will spare your life!"_

_The shout caught the beast's attention, which Durin realized a minute too late might not have been a good thing. The teeth that were shown glittered like dozens of mithril spears longer than a dwarf was tall._

_"And why would I do that when the stink of dwarf is only overtaken by the reek of fear, puny king? How many shall I kill? Two dozen? Five? One hundred?"_

_A twitch of the massive body and dwarrow warriors were sent flying in every direction, several impacting walls to slide down, still, on the floor. _

"_Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!"_

_The war cry of the dwarrow was ripped from a dozen throats as the warriors renewed their charge, an intricate dance of torchlight sparking off of varying colors of armor, ducking and weaving about the gleaming limbs of the great creature. Finally, the king was able to slide along the floor under the claw, mithril blade biting deep into scales that other weapons could not so much as scratch. This, in turn, made the dragon rear and twist to confront this tormentor, momentarily exposing the underbelly. Even as Durin was forced to concentrate upon not being killed, he caught the swift blur of arrows from the corner of his eye, noting in satisfaction that at least one had struck true. It was not, however, a vital hit, serving only to enrage their foe while allowing drops of deadly blood to splatter as the beast wrenched the arrow free._

"'_Ware its blood!"_

_Durin bellowed, only to gasp as his single second of inattention cost him dearly. One swipe of a massive claw sent him flying across the room to impact one of the enormous stone columns, and he felt at least one rib give under the punishment. Hitting the floor and lying momentarily dazed, he could hear the cry of at least one dwarf who'd been unable to heed his warning, the hot stench of burning flesh unmistakable. _

_As his vision cleared, Durin twisted to catch sight of his foe once more, attempting to scramble up only to be sent tumbling again as the dragon flung itself around, landing hard on the floor in an odd belly flop with tail, teeth, and all four claws lashing out to scatter dwarrow like so many fall leaves. Forcing himself upright once more, the king dove back into the fray, the Ax of Durin once more biting deeply and its owner again hurled away. This time, though, it was a wall that bore the impact and his head that connected first, sending stars flashing before he started to black out. _

_Some part of him screamed that he needed to stand, to fight, though he could not remember why, and when he tried, arms and legs wobbled like ill forged steel, folding under the pressure to send him crashing back to the ground with a clatter that made his head hurt even more. Someone was shouting, pulling at him, but he could not be stirred to discover who or why. His body was lifted, then slammed down, a rib giving way and stabbing into his chest with a pain that finally tore consciousness away for good._

_That he regained awareness again at all was a pleasant surprise, despite the pain of mangled insides; he did not need to hear the soft weeping nearby to know that his wounds were mortal. Without strength to open his eyes, he lay, wishing he could swallow against the foul taste in his mouth. Then, as if in answer to that unspoken wish, a hand lifted his head ever so slightly, cool metal pressed to his lips._

"_Just a sip, Father. To help with the pain."_

_The herbs tasted like the sweetest of nectar to the dying dwarf, a pleasant warmth spreading through his tortured body, easing pain and giving a trickle of energy back. As his discomfort no longer stole all his attention, eyes slid open to take in the sight of the dwarrowdam hovering over him, tear-streaked face fighting to smile for his sake. So beautiful, with her silver-white hair, the same as her mother! Frey had been of the Stonefoots of the east, an arranged alliance marriage that none had expected to turn into love, least of all him. _

_Of course, __he had__ never thought to ascend the throne of Khazad-dûm, either, being merely the sister-son to a king with three sons of his own! No, the only fame he had coveted was that which came with his unparalleled skill at forging the precious mithril and steel into weapons fit for kings. To be the premiere smith with the odd eastern wife who only added to his talent with her ability to etch metals with acids, even mithril, was plenty for him! Fate, however, had not been so kind that overcast spring day as he returned to the kingdom from the east…_

_Jerking his thoughts from such unsettling memories, he reached out one shaking hand to caress the locks so reminiscent of the lady __he had__ loved and lost long ago, his only child turning her face into it and planting a kiss upon one scarred palm. __It was the bitter part of the legacy left to them by Durin I; that he would live to not only bury his wife after the fading took her at the age of 321, but to also see his child age to look so much older than he! __As his strength waned again, she caught the dropping limb, tucking it securely under furs snugged close to prevent a chill. Behind her, he could just see her son, his heir, seated stiffly in a chair, one arm in a sling and face pale, making bruises stand out. As the younger Durin shifted slightly, he gasped in pain, sweat beading on his forehead._

_The king shifted a bit himself, but a gurgling breath told him that __he would__ not be able to talk, so one hand fumbled its way back from under the covers, shaky signs forming in the new language the miners had been making popular throughout the kingdom._

'_Prince injured?'_

_Frìs cast a tight-lipped glance over her shoulder, face showing the worry and annoyance of a mother who was being ignored by her adult child._

"_Yes. Some of the dragon's blood burned his arm."_

_Durin sucked in a noisy breath in alarm, eyes widening, for the blood of the creatures could be as deadly as their teeth and claws, not only burning, but causing the person __poisoned by its touch__ to die in agony. _

"_It's alright, Father. Lady Galadriel sent healers as soon as her scouts reported the attack on the eastern gate, and they were able to give him the antidote in time. He needs to be in bed himself, though, not wasting his strength-"_

_She cut herself off as the prince muttered something too soft for Durin to hear, though his mother dropped her head to hide her face from them both. The king struggled to pull in a deeper breath, paying for the audacity with sharp pains in his chest and an urge to cough that he dare not give in to. Thank Mahal that Galadriel had decided to move to Lindórinand about seventy years ago, for healers having to come all the way from the west would have been too late! He managed just the slightest hint of a smile as his hands told what his daughter had been too polite to say aloud._

'_Sitting with dying fool?'_

_That earned a snort from the prince even as a weak laugh came from beneath the mithril hair of the dwarrowdam._

"_I didn't say that, you're not a fool!"_

_One eyebrow shot up, as she had certainly called him that in the past. Loudly. And publically._

'_Dying, though.'_

_"Yes." _

_That was acknowledged with a bitter, tear choked whisper._

_'Dragon?'_

_"The beast is dead, grandfather. Frér killed it, though he sacrificed his own life doing so."_

_Durin III's soft words overrode his mother's muffled weeping, voice hoarse and brittle, warning the king that his heir was almost at the end of his strength. It was almost physically painful, to think of that bright young dwarf, his principal aid for the last ten years, dead when he had barely the chance to live. Far better that it had been an old dwarf like him than Frér, who would be dearly missed at his prince's side as the young heir dealt with what was to come. It would not be easy, this passing of the soul of Durin I from grandfather to grandson at the moment of the elder's death, though writings left by the ancient dwarrow father had at least warned them of what was to come. Knowing that his time was running short, the king crooked his hand into another sign, recalling the quakes they had felt on the way to the battle with a shudder._

_'Kingdom?'_

_"There is... significant damage." _

_At this, the dwarrowdam made a low noise of protest, moving as if to go to her son as he shifted again, sitting forward in the chair with obvious pain, but he waved her off. _

_"He would not thank us for lying to him, Mother, especially now." _

_He turned back to the king, face grim. _

_"Its death throes and the flood of blood when Frer severed the main artery to the beast's heart caused a massive quake. A fissure has opened up through the room and beyond, we don't yet know how far it extends or the amount of instability."_

_That did not sound at all good, but it was becoming harder and harder to force his hand to move, sight beginning to tinge black at the edges as he faded. For his kingdom, however, he would rally one last time._

_'Deep?'_

_"They tell me a lantern on the end of three ropes tied end to end could not reach the bottom, if there even is one. The southern mines report a fissure opened there, as well, though so far there have been no more quakes. I have experts already assessing the stability of the sites."_

_'Rest. You. Now.'_

_"He will, Father, I'll make certain of it."_

_Durin II managed a barely perceptible tilt of his head at that, the shallow breath that was all he dared to draw abruptly choking him. The burble of blood in his lungs was audible now, a trickle coming from the corner of his mouth as he weakly coughed out one last bit of air he had breathed in, then stilled, never to draw another._

"Thorin!"

Breath exploded from the king as he was abruptly torn from memories too akin to his own last moments for comfort, the feeling of drowning slowly fading as his lungs worked to pull in air as they were supposed to. Fíli was the one who had spoken, standing right in front of the king upon the very edge of the abyss, physically blocking his uncle from a fatal misstep. Blue eyes met matching worried ones, the prince's stance easing as he took in Thorin's return to the present. To Fíli's right, he could see Kíli still near the foot of the bridge, one hand braced on the shoulder of the ever-present Kifir to steady himself. Therin was slightly apart from his brothers, scowling fiercely, a seemingly permanent expression for the youngest these days.

"One of the Durins died here," He offered by way of explanation, unwilling to speak further of the unsettling parallels with his own life. While not literally true, it was close enough.

"What happened?" Fíli asked, moving away from the edge of the abyss, much to the betterment of Thorin's nerves.

The king sighed, not masking the bitter hatred in cold blue eyes as he answered.

"A dragon." Dwalin began cursing in Khuzdul until Thorin stilled him with a sharp look, surprised at his friend's sudden presence. "The creature's death struggles must have destabilized a fault line. This was the result."

Thorin waved a hand at the chasm, absently kicking a small piece of debris over the edge and watching as it vanished into the darkness. Dwalin, however, had not seemed mollified in the least by the explanation, still resembling a thundercloud almost bursting with pent-up rain and lightning.

"What is it, Dwalin?"

The warrior scowled, one hand fingering the head of his war hammer as he leaned on it.

"I was overseeing the removal of filth and set my pack down in the room next to the gate room. When I came back, it was gone!"

The reactions to that were mixed, to say the least. Bofur was the first to speak up, caught in between shock, outrage, and mirth.

"Ya mean someone had the gall to steal from ya?!"

"More likely thought it was lost or in the way and moved it." Fíli opined, adding a muttered, "I hope!"

A sound none had heard in too long reached their ears then, softening even Dwalin's thunderous expression – Kíli was laughing.

"I-I'm sorry! I just couldn't- The look on your face-"

"Did you take the pack?"

Thorin frowned, trying to think if he had seen Kíli anywhere around the gate room before coming here, but the prince was already shaking his head, while the youngest of Dis' brood, standing next to his brothers now, was looking awfully smug!

"Therin?"

The king demanded, recalling that the other had been in the gate room earlier when he should have been with Kíli. The prince shrugged.

"It's in the room beyond the one he left it in."

"I know, I already found it." Dwalin grumbled.

Thorin was about to ask what the problem was, then, when the warrior continued, pinning the guilty party with a glare that promised dire retribution.

"What I want to know is where my bedroll, dagger, and one of the extra tunics that were in it went!"

Therin paled, shaking his head frantically.

"I didn't touch any of that, Master Dwalin, I swear! I only moved it!"

"Now, Dwalin, leave the lad alone. I'd hate to have to watch ya given a death sentence for killin' a prince!"

At Bofur's comment, Kíli snorted, having sobered at the revelation that things were missing.

"No court of judgment anywhere on Middle Earth would rule that anything other than suicide, Bofur!"

"Too true." Fíli added, rolling his eyes at the audacity while Thorin's mind turned over possibilities, including how to catch a thief if they had one in their midst.

"Warmaster! We're ready!"

The call made Thorin turn and survey the amount of work already accomplished in surprise, pleased that something, at least, seemed to be going according to plan. A rope bridge made up of evenly spaced boards to serve as a walkway was already tightly strung to the stone columns on either side of the abyss, with an elf and dwarf both on it, testing its strength in various spots. Other dwarrow, with a few men and elves, waited patiently for the word to cross and begin scouting the first section of the great stairs that would lead to the upper seven levels of the stone city. The re-taking of Khazad-dûm had well and truly begun!


	8. When Memory Turns to Nightmare

Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

_Author's Note: The text in bold is quoted directly from the "Fellowship of the Ring" by J.R.R. Tolkien. I will try to continue updating on Mondays through the holidays, but cannot guarantee it._

_**Warning: This chapter contains a non-graphic depiction of an execution by poison.**_

8. When Memory Turns to Nightmare

That night, Thorin twisted in his sleep, unable to settle as his mind coursed through the ages and diverse personalities he had once been even as the few scattered passages retrieved from the Book of Mazarbul haunted him. Voices, some dear, and others unknown, spoke from a darkness that the king could not dispel, nor escape back to the realm of the waking, though he knew it was but a dream.

"_**Balin, Lord of Moria, fell in Dimrill Dale."**_

"_They call him the Witch-King of Angmar. The realms of men are falling, the blood of Numenor is too weak in them now."_

"_The Lord of Rivendell asks for weapons. What word should I send in reply, Lord Durin?"_

_A snort of contempt that changed to a malicious laugh._

"_So the high and mighty Firstborn finally deign to see those so far below them, do they? Tell them we will sell, but set the price at twice the gold we would take from any other. Let them pay for their arrogance!"_

"_**Óin to seek for the upper armories of Third Deep."**_

"_You cannot seriously be considering helping them! Morgoth cannot be defeated! Nargothrond has already fallen, as have Gondolin, and most of the realms of the Edain… Nogrod and Belegost only hold out due to the might of their walls! We cannot hope to-"_

"_Enough! We must or all will be lost, can you not see that?"_

"_If you do this, Durin, if you go, you will not return through these gates again! Would you have us lose the last of the Fathers?"_

_Laughter, hearty, but bitter, forced._

"_Not by choice, my friend, but I gave my word, and I will not betray that. I may not live, but my spirit will return, Vith. Watch for the signs."_

"_**The Watcher in the Water has taken Óin."**_

"_We must expand the mines! The mithril is there, Father, I know it! Why will you not see that?"_

"_Already there have been two cave-ins. Seven dwarrow have lost their lives! Tell me, will your precious gems and mithril buy off the sorrow of their families? Replace a father, a husband, or son? When, my son, will you not see that there are things in this world worth much more than all the mithril we've ever found or will find?!"_

"_You are a blind old fool!"_

"_And you are an ignorant child!"_

"_**We cannot get out."**_

"_My lord, they have taken Mount Gundabad. All there are lost, including your cousin. What are we to do?"_

"_Order the doors sealed. None leaves or enters Khazad-dûm from this day until the darkness has fled or we march to the last hope of Middle Earth."_

"_Do you truly believe that day will come? That the Men and elves will find the strength to fight Sauron?"_

"_I do not know, Hönir, but it is the only hope that I have now. Gil-Galad is still strong, and Elrond will not be easily dug from that valley he's found. Begin the plans we discussed, and someone find my son, send him to me. Try the forges first. The darkness grows in Middle-Earth; we must be the spark of light that holds strong."_

"_**Drums…drums in the deep."**_

Thorin woke with a muffled gasp, sweat, hot and itchy, making his loose shirt cling to his body, his hand wrapped so tightly around the hilt of his sword that he could feel every graceful carving digging into his skin. Panting slightly, he forced a weary body upright, deep breathes burning his lungs as he sought to slow a wildly beating heart and relax muscles cramped too tightly to easily give up their grip on Orcrist. Around the king, the various snores and shuffle of dwarrow twisting and twitching in their sleep eased his mind out of high alert and he slumped. All was well. He was ready to lay himself back down when a spark of light to the side caught his attention.

With the gate room and first inner rooms secure, it had been judged that the king and princes would be less vulnerable within for the night, along with a contingent of their personal guard. The stone was not the most comfortable of beds, but it was better than the rain Thorin knew was pouring outside. Squinting, he forced sleep-blurred eyes to focus in the dimness, trying to decide what had alerted him. As the light flared a second time, he realized that it was the faint glow of a pipe being lit, fire brand cupped in a shielding hand to avoid waking the sleepers around him, but with just enough light escaping to bounce off golden braids swinging to either side of the smoker's mouth. With a sigh, Thorin heaved himself to his feet and picked his way over, unsurprised to see the dark-haired head poking out of the bedroll by the other's knee.

"Fíli."

The whispered word held all the deep affection he so rarely allowed himself to show, but also a hint of the worry that would never completely leave him, not with the trouble these two so regularly attracted. The younger dwarf smiled faintly, dark circles painting smudges under his eyes.

"Thorin."

"Have you slept at all?"

The golden head gave a small shake, free hand dropping to run over his brother's hair before tucking the blanket just a bit more securely around the slumbering form.

"No. I wanted to keep an eye on him, and…"

"And?"

Thorin prompted, easing himself to sit next to the princes, noting with a frown that Kíli had not stirred at his brother's touch. The younger brother had always been a heavy sleeper, but the fever should have made him restless enough to react. At least he showed no sign of nightmares, something Thorin had expected the prince to suffer from after seeing Durin's Bane. Fíli's eyes sadly followed his, blue darkening with shared concern.

"We could be fighting a troll right next to him and he probably wouldn't wake, he's that exhausted." The beads on the ends of his braids clacked lightly as he shook his head. "I wish…"

"Fíli…"

Thorin reached out, one hand resting lightly on his nephew's shoulder, heart sinking when he felt the other flinch. He had never been an easy dwarf to live with, especially during the dark days of their exile, but he had not thought he had ever given his kin cause to fear him, either. His hand tightened on Fíli's shoulder, giving it a slight shake that made the other lower his pipe and finally turn to look him full in the face.

"He made me promise not to say anything to you, but I can't-" There was a pause as his hand became white-knuckled on the metal pipe bowl, the next sentence barely a whisper. "I miss his laughter, Thorin, I miss-"

He broke off with a grimace, sudden distress radiating off the slim form and making Thorin's heart pick up in turn, his recent dreams echoing in his mind. Blue eyes searched his sister-son's face for a hint of what this dilemma might be that was serious enough to keep the younger dwarf from sleep. He wanted to shake him, and demand answers so that he might turn the problem over in his mind until a solution could be squeezed out of it, but years of hard experience had finally taught him that emotions could rarely be so easily dealt with. Instead, he forced himself to patiently wait and was rewarded with a soft mumble directed toward the floor.

"I- We shouldn't be here. I should never have given into him when he argued that we should come with you."

It wasn't much, but he could work with that.

"You worry for your brother's safety."

It was unnecessary to say which brother, as Fíli would only react with this depth of emotion to Kíli, though he got along with Therin well enough. It was also so obvious that Thorin could have hit himself with his own war hammer for not thinking of it sooner, given the trauma the brothers had suffered. Fíli, who had rarely been separated from his younger brother since the latter's birth, had watched, too far away to intervene, as Kíli was murdered on the field in the Battle of the Five Armies, a fate that was probably worse than any torture the most evil creature could devise for the golden prince. It had altered him permanently, making the older brother almost obsessive about his sibling's safety; he had even suffered panic attacks when out of sight of the other early on, though he had not had one in years now.

Of course, neither of the princes had been allowed into a situation where fighting might occur in years, either, nor had they spent more than a day here or there completely apart in all that time. It was a set of circumstances that Thorin was beginning to suspect only buried the trauma, not aided in allowing Fíli to deal with it, as they had all presumed. There had certainly not been any hint of such worries when having the princes join the army was discussed, only concern about how their wives would handle the load of ruling in their absences, yet that very omission should have alerted both him and Dis. How could he have once again been so blind to the effects of his decisions upon his kin?

"I could order the two of you home. With their mother's death, Austri and Vestri-"

A bitter bark of laughter cut him off.

"Are you _trying_ to have us both sleeping on the couch? No, they specifically sent us letters ordering us to stay here. Austri thinks that being needed to guide and support them is the only thing keeping Glóin from the fading himself, and selfish or not, she fears losing her father so soon after her mother." Fíli's eyes slipped closed as he grimaced, face darting away from his uncle's penetrating gaze once more. "No, he's needed here, and I- I will live with it. There is an army a thousand strong surrounding us, not the mere seventy that Balin took with him. What's wrong?"

Thorin had been unable to mask the sharp inhalation of breath and the shudder that ran through him at the mention of Balin's name, his own reason for being awake in the middle of the night returning sharply. Now it was the turn of the nephew to search for clues in his uncle's visage while the older dwarf struggled not to display his distress.

"Was the Book of Mazarbul brought with us?"

"Yes. Uncle-"

"In the morning, I want you to meet with our best scholars and anyone else with knowledge of such things. See if there is any way to restore more of the text."

He could see the puzzlement mingled with shock in the prince's eyes at such a directive, but the other nodded acceptance with the total trust in his uncle that Thorin had once feared irrevocably lost.

"Is there any reason that you wish this now? Back in Erebor, we were told that the book's condition meant that such efforts might destroy more than we gain."

Then again, his nephew might just have been waiting until he could voice his doubts in a more diplomatic way!

"You have been dealing with outsiders and diplomats too long, Fíli, you have forgotten how to speak with other dwarrow. You wish to know if your royal uncle has taken leave of his royal senses, do you not?"

That at last drew out a genuine smile and hastily muffled laughter from the younger dwarf.

"I would not go that far, no, but I was wondering why you had suddenly changed your mind when you had said earlier that it wasn't worth the risk. Is it the reason you're awake in the middle of the night as well?"

Thorin pursed his lips, considering carefully before he answered. He was not quite certain why he had suddenly decided such a thing, yet… Fíli was no longer the callow youth who had made jokes about orc raids, but a young ruler of Durin's blood who had been trained by the very one whose council he so missed right now.

"There is an uneasiness to this place that I cannot shake, a feeling that I am missing something important, and tonight, all I could hear in my dreams were voices telling of death and sorrow. The lines of the book kept repeating, over and over, though I could see nothing through the veil of darkness hiding the speakers from me."

"And you believe this to mean that you missed something in the book." Fíli was silent for a long moment, then added, "You might ask Frodo if he would aid them, as well. Bilbo trained him in a different scholarly tradition than our people."

Thorin allowed his head to lean back onto the stone wall with a soft clunk, absently accepting and drawing on the pipe he was handed. He had heard the skepticism in Fíli's first statement; could not truthfully blame him for it, though the suggestion that followed was a good one. Thorin had not raised his heirs to put their faith in dreams and signs any more than he did, believing instead that a dwarf made his own path as well as he could. That, however, had been before the Arkenstone. He curled the fingers on his marked hand in to rub over the scars upon his palm as the smoke in his lungs sent a faint buzz through his body, calming his mind as the cloud left his mouth. Next to them, Kíli made a soft mewling noise in his sleep and rolled, hand falling open to allow the soft multi-colored light of the miniature Arkenstone embedded in his own palm to dance around his uncle and brother. Fíli snorted, rolling his eyes, but made no move to nudge his brother into another position.

"He forgot to put a glove over that again. Vestri says he rarely bothers in their chambers, as she finds the lights rather restful, but I'd better start reminding him here."

"Hmm." Thorin's hum of agreement did not long divert him from the topic at hand. "I do not honestly know, but always before this, the memories of Durin's lives that I see have had some relation to what was happening now. Sometimes they merely were memories brought out by circumstance, but sometimes-"

"Sometimes they have been warnings? You've not mentioned it before now."

Thorin almost groaned at that, wishing the other were a bit less alert, especially when they both were so short of sleep. This would do nothing but dig up old hurts for his nephew.

"It did not seem to matter as it only happened twice, both times long before now."

"During the journey back from Minas Tir- Arnor?"

"Yes…"

Thorin hesitated, but knew that there was no way short of Kíli waking and needing help that he would be able to stop short of explaining fully. If there was one trait that had bred true in the Durin line since its inception, it was the stubbornness.

"I dreamed of the Balrog just before returning to the mountain, a warning that I had yet to fully confront the last of the gold sickness within."

"And the second time?"

Heaving a sigh, the king faced his nephew, seeing the suspicion lurking in blue eyes.

"That was the second time, Fíli. The first showed me Durin IV, whose son had been forced to drink the taint of Mordor by the cult, turning him to darkness. I had it while in that cave with Kíli."

Fíli jerked away, head ducking down as hands ran up and down his legs in nervous agitation before he ran his fingers over the outside of one arm, though the wound he sought was long healed, leaving only the faintest trace of a scar. An accident while crossing a bridge in Mirkwood had sent the prince plummeting into muck tainted by the run-off from the ruins of Dol Guldur, the ancient stronghold of Sauron in his guise of the Necromancer. Though the stuff had lost much of its potency with exposure to light and the death of its creator, it had been enough to give Fíli violently paranoid delusions, taking his uncle and brother captive for a harrowing three day trek through the forest.

"What happened?"

Thorin was so lost in his thoughts that he almost missed the whispered question.

"What?"

"What happened to Durin IV's son? Were they able to save him?"

_Second Age, 3441_

_Durin IV, Lord of Khazad-dûm, most powerful of all the dwarrow upon Middle-Earth, sat upon the bare stone, feeling helpless as the cold settled into his bones. The room was small and dark, a single torch flickering casting shadows through the iron bars separating the king from the dwarf sitting stiffly on the other side. The prisoner, however, paid no attention to his royal visitor, stuffing his face with food dribbling out of both hands before letting out a belch and grabbing his cup, drink spilling down a matted, stringy beard onto filthy clothing. Washing water had been provided, along with fresh clothing, but both had been sneered at. _

_Durin just watched, hands clenching to stop himself from crying out a warning, wanted to slap the fatal bites from twisted, angry lips. But he could not._

_How had it come to this? That a father could sit silently by and watch his only son unknowingly poisoning himself? Tears trickled unheeded down his face as he watched, swallowing hard, as the Prince of Khazad-dûm looked up with a malicious cackle._

_"Enjoying the show so much, Father? Such pretty little tears upon the face of the mighty king! You have only to give yourself to the Dark Lord, and you would never feel such petty emotions again."_

_Durin shook his head, heart in his throat as he struggled to control his emotions enough to speak._

_"And why would I wish to do such a thing? They make me who I am."_

_He wanted to stop this, to spend his last minutes with his son telling the younger dwarf how much he loved him, how sorry he was to have failed him, but he could not. When it had been decided that this was the most merciful way to handle the execution, it also meant that nothing could happen that was out of the ordinary. So, here the king sat, as he had each morning since the discovery of the prince attempting to smother his baby son and then, when that was thwarted, trying to kill his father. Or rather, the creature who had taken the place of his son had. From what could be determined, the prince had died the moment that the tainted drink had been forced down his throat by a member of the Death Warriors, as Sauron's followers among the dwarrow had been named._

_"Such things make you a foolish weakling."_

_The king allowed himself a bitter laugh at that._

_"You would lecture me about weakness? Tell me, how is it that your mighty master must resort to trickery and slaughter, if he is so strong? Even now, his tower is besieged and he hides while the mightiest host seen upon Middle-Earth comes calling! It is not we who are weak, child."_

_The other dwarf's purposely atrocious eating had slowed, hands beginning to fumble slightly as the first signs of the drug became evident. It did not stop Sauron's pawn from sneering at the king, however._

_"You are d-dependent upon love and trust, both of which are only illusions! Ways to con-control others too weak to see - What have you done?!"_

_The prince's body slumped to the side as his eyes began to lose focus, sliding closed, then jerking open again. As his father watched, one hand reached out in supplication as he jerked, trying to fight the herbs pulling him into sleep. _

_"Please, do not fight it, my son. Soon you will be in Mahal's Forge, safe and free once more from this vile imprisonment. Just sleep."_

_Durin gasped, finally giving himself permission to reach back, hand shaking as it closed on that of his son only to have the other suddenly stiffen, grabbing and twisting in an attempt to break the older dwarf's wrist. Blue eyes opened one last time, as cold as the ice on the peaks high above them._

_"You - will - die!"_

_With that, the body slumped, falling into stillness as Durin pulled away to fall back against the hard stone of the wall, tears streaming down a bereft father's face._

Thorin closed his eyes momentarily against the pain that echoed from that memory, even after all this time. He had noticed that some of the emotions his predecessors felt were so strong that it was as if it were him in the memory, while others were distant, a dream recalled dimly in the light of morning, and he had yet to figure out why. This one, though… The loss of one loved so dearly, taken too soon and leaving his father with a feeling of helpless rage, that was too similar to what Thorin himself had felt as he lay dying after that horrific battle, knowing that his boys were already gone in a futile attempt to defend him. Swallowing hard, he cleared his throat, blinking back the tears that stung the corners of his eyes before they could fall.

"No. The Istari were not yet in Middle Earth, and no other had the power to aid him."

Beside him, Fíli had slumped back against the wall, eyes closed in painful memory.

"I would not have wanted to live, not like that. Hurting those closest to me."

Even after fourteen years, there was a great deal of lingering pain and self-recrimination in those words. The silence that followed them, however, was what truly caught Thorin's attention. Turning back to his nephew, his stomach clenched to see the golden prince staring at the dagger held in his hand as if entranced, the torchlight setting the rune inscribed on the pommel ablaze. Reaching out slowly, Thorin allowed his fingers to gently tug the weapon away, not wanting to recall the horrific sight of it being thrown toward his sister. If he had not knocked into Fíli's arm, if Bofur had not moved when he did- The consequences did not bear contemplating.

"You hurt Therin today."

The simple statement caught Thorin completely by surprise, making him gape at the other dwarf for a long moment, mind stuttering to make sense of what had just been said.

"What?"

"He is your heir, Thorin, not me. Not anymore. It should have been his place as prince to oversee the proper treatment of our people's remains. Instead, you sent him off with another group, and not even in charge."

It was with a cold shock that Thorin realized Fíli was correct, that he had not thought through what he had been saying. He was so horrified at what his youngest nephew must have taken as a dismissal that he did something he rarely allowed, he blurted out his error.

"I did not think..."

The prince smiled sadly at him, reminding Thorin strongly of another heir of Durin, though there was no taint left in Fíli, thank Mahal.

"You simply ordered things as you would have on the quest. I told Therin as much, pointed out that you were overwhelmed with the memories, but you need to speak with him, uncle. He takes such things to heart as much as Kíli does."

"I will."

Thorin softly promised, silently watching as the blonde put away his pipe and lay down near his sibling, thankfully dropping quickly into what looked to be a peaceful sleep. Fíli, however, had never been one to lie quietly for long, soon turning to allow one hand to flop onto the stone outside the blankets, looking as if he reached one last time for his kin.

_Durin did not know how long he sat there, hand resting upon the cold stone just short of his son's lifeless one, tears running unchecked down his face. It might have been mere minutes, or hours, before the warm, large hand came to rest upon his shoulder, a tall, thin form folding gracefully down to sit at his side. As he did, several dwarrow came silently in, gently removing the body with the respect due a prince of Durin._

"_I would have spared you this, my friend."_

_The king shook his head, eyes still locked upon his son's disappearing form as the others quietly swung the door closed behind them, leaving him alone with his visitor. His voice, when he spoke, was choked and guttural with grief._

"_There was no reprieve, not when it was my orders that put him there, my orders that laced his food with poison."_

"_You were given no choice, Durin. To leave him here was to leave an enemy at your back, in the heart of your kingdom. He was Mordor's creature now, nothing more. Do not take the weight of misplaced guilt upon shoulders already bowed with grief, but remember instead the dwarf who was your son- warrior, smith, and occasional bad poet."_

_The dwarf stirred at that, the faintest of laughs escaping at the mention of the prince's somewhat lackluster attempts at verse, finally allowing reddened eyes to meet the dark, ageless gaze of his elven friend._

"_Is there life beyond this, Elrond? An escape from the darkness and cruelty? For I cannot see it. All I see is death."_

"_Then let me show you life and hope instead, mellon. We had not planned to say anything yet, but…" _

_The dark haired elf smiled, suddenly full of a besotted amazement that transformed his visage from ageless to the most love-sick youngling, and Durin knew without any further words what had happened. It was so comical an image that he could not help a genuine laugh this time, a spark of light that he seized with both hands._

"_Celeborn and Galadriel have given consent? And Gil-Galad?"_

"_Yes, they have all offered their blessing."_

"_You always did have the rottenest timing." Durin grumbled. Only Elrond would think it appropriate to woo his lady in the midst of the battle for their very lives! "I had thought we said you should wait until this thrice-cursed war was done. Aren't you elves always the ones counseling the wisdom of time and patience?"_

_The elf paused at that, focus going over his friend's shoulder to the empty iron cage._

"_I realized that if the prince of the mightiest dwarrow kingdom could be taken and corrupted in the very heart of it, that there is truly no safety upon Middle-Earth. I would not have my lady lose me without knowing the truth of how I feel."_

_Durin grunted, resisting the urge to say 'I told you', as this was what he had been trying to hammer into his friend's head for the last ten years. The comment upon his son he allowed to pass unremarked. He would carry that sorrow to his grave._

"_And the lady herself? It's usually polite to ask her as well, you know. She might have come to her senses while you dithered around, too shy and love-struck to risk rejection from Celeborn, and found someone with more of a backbone!" _

_A golden laugh preceded the subject of their discussion as the door swung open once more, an elven maiden of great beauty seeming to float through as if walking upon the very air. Her presence lightened the room as her besotted beau stumbled to his feet with an awkwardness rarely seen in elves. Elrond's eyes were only for his beloved, Durin noted, amused, rather than upon where he was putting his feet. As the dwarf lord stood, golden eyes sought out the strained face, tallying every new wrinkle and tear shown by the bereaved father. The lady took both of his hands in hers, empathy easily connecting dwarf and elf._

"_I grieve with thee."_

"_Thank you." Was all that he could manage before seizing upon the diversion his friend had previously offered. "So you actually agreed to marry this lout, then?"_

_Celebrian smiled, mischief floating about her as she looked to the dark-haired half-elf who had won her heart._

"_I could hardly refuse after he took life and limb in hand to persuade my father, could I? Such courage must be properly rewarded!"_

"_Are you two quite through?" Elrond asked acidly, though his countenance showed only amusement at their teasing. "The wedding will be in the Golden Wood, and I would ask, Durin, that you stand with me."_

_The king could not hold back the gasp of shock, tears coming for a different reason at Celebrian's confirming nod._

"_Nothing could make us happier than your presence upon that day."_

_Durin shook his head in amazement, a firm tug upon her hand making the maid bend until he could plant a kiss upon her cheek._

"_It would be my honor, though I do not know what some of you kin might say to such a short, hairy witness."_

_The girl looked to her lord, whose sappy expression had become worse, if anything._

"_Elrond and I do not care, though I must confess that I do not see the attraction of beards. Yours tickled!"_

"_I believe you will find, Celebrian," Elrond intoned with a bare sparkle in his eye to let the others know he was not completely serious. "That it is necessary to keep their faces from scaring off prospective mates!"_

_Durin rolled his eyes, one hand caressing the luxuriant length of grey-streaked brown beard, mentally thanking his original father, Durin I, once again for the legacy that froze the inheritors of his soul as Durin in time, unaging until they were killed. His grandfather, Durin II, had looked to be barely past his hundredth year until the day he died! With a wave of the hand, he ushered the two into the corridor, waiting until Elrond was completely focused upon whispering to his beloved, and then he swiftly stuck a foot between the elf lord's feet._


	9. Stairway to Disaster

Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

9. Stairway to Disaster

Kíli watched, eyes warily scanning the landings above that were still shrouded in darkness as a small team of dwarrow and one elf worked to secure another of the temporary rope bridges across the gap in the great staircase. Truthfully, they were lucky this area was passable at all given the damage done by the Balrog as it chased the Fellowship through these halls and to the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, where Gandalf had stopped it.

The prince shivered, trying to put the image of the old wanderer facing the towering form of darkness and fire alone from his mind, knowing he would probably have yet another night of broken sleep tonight. Since seeing the horrific creature and feeling the overwhelming rejection, the wrongness, imbedded into the very stone where the thing walked, he had been suffering nightmares. That was not something he was about to tell Fíli or Thorin, however. For the last two nights, he had feigned sleep until certain his brothers and uncle had all dozed off, then scooted over to sit against the wall, watching the dim forms of the others in camp until the dawn watch went out, pondering anything that came to mind with a weight it might not otherwise have.

If Gandalf had known such a creature was here, why had he ever ventured through the gates? Would they not have had a better chance going through the High Pass if Redhorn was blocked? If Gandalf could stand up to the Balrog, why was he unable to protect the Fellowship from a bit of snow? The ways of wizards would never cease to baffle him!

He had heard talk among some of the dwarrow who wished to name the new span being constructed the Bridge of Tharkûn, even given the often meddlesome nature of the old wizard, though Thorin had yet to respond to such a notion. Truthfully, Kili would just be happy to never need to go through there again! A shout from one of the dwarrow on the landing above reminded the prince that he had best keep his mind from such thoughts, given what they were doing. If Thorin were to catch him wit-wandering yet again…

This was tedious work, and nervous, as just because they had yet to encounter resistance did not mean their enemy was not lurking nearby, but necessary if they were to do anything more. Khazad-dûm had been built in sections over several hundred or more years, each able to be isolated for defense or to contain illness. The eastern section housed the main city, and was the area where they believed they were least likely to encounter resistance, as the finished levels and architecture favored the dwarrow, who easily navigated such places.

This end of the ancient city had further been built for defense, with not only the narrow bridge, but this stair to confound intruders. Each landing led to another level of Khazad-dûm, seven up and seven down from the gate, each one easily defended from above, or cut off if necessary, the only way into the city other than hidden passages whose secrets were long since lost, even, apparently, to Thorin, whose access to the memories of the various Durins was not automatic. Kíli himself could pinpoint where they were by reading the stone, but without the key or proper words, it was simply another wall.

Several nights before, Thorin had drawn the leaders of the army about him, laying out a map of Khazad-dûm upon the stone floor of the main gate-room as he explained his strategy. They would make their way up the stairs, sealing off each level so that none could come at them from behind, with the exception of the main market area upon the second upper floor, to which they had moved this morning. That, they would use as a main camp from which to work until they reached the uppermost, or Twenty-first, hall, when the army would be split into pieces, each one taking an upper floor to clear as they moved east. After that, groups would fan out, scouring the deeps slowly downward of all enemies until they were left with full control of the city and northern mines before venturing into the other two sections of the kingdom.

It was logical, as the orcs, trolls, and other squatters would have been more likely to alter the lowest levels close to the mines to suit their dark nature, and the southern and western mines were full of natural caverns. It was there that the army would most likely encounter the fiercest battles and most uncertain ground, so they would need strong, safe areas to their backs. From what little he had been able to read from the stone as he poured over the same map back at Erebor, Kíli knew that there were vast sections not built by any dwarrow that would have to be dealt with very carefully; mazes of tunnels worse even then Goblintown had been.

Something about the entire conference, however, had bothered the brunette prince; or, more precisely, about how his uncle had acted. Thorin was keeping secrets again, he was almost certain of it, and worse, Fili had some idea of what it was. Even more irritating was the way both of them hovered around him incessantly, ensuring that he had food, drink, or anything else he needed before he could think to ask Kifir for it. Thorin and Fíli were both careful to never directly badger him about any of it, of course, so he could do little beyond gritting his teeth and smiling.

When it was decided that Kíli would go to Khazad-dûm, Dis, foreseeing trouble with the unerring instinct of a mother, had sat her family down and brokered an agreement. Thorin and Fíli would not directly pester him to rest, eat, or anything else once inside the ancient kingdom. Asking, however, would be allowed, provided it was done sparingly. In return, Kíli agreed not to fight the ministrations of the healers, eating and resting when told and swallowing whatever vile concoctions they gave him. Fíli was also allowed to keep a check upon the ever-present fever.

Of all those close to him, only Tauriel and Therin were not constantly watching over his shoulder, though the elf maiden was a bit more concerned with finding some goblins and orcs to fight. That definitely had not changed, she was as hot tempered and impetuous as ever! Though she seemed determined to stay nearby, the she-elf had yet to speak with him, hurrying away both times he had attempted to initiate conversation, a situation the dwarf found as impossible to let alone as a sore tooth.

The sharp clang of metal on stone drew Kili's attention back to what he was supposed to be doing in time to see the dwarf tossing the hook, Nast, curse before pulling it back to attempt another throw. This was the first crossing of the morning, and Nori's eldest son was already in a foul mood. The gap in front of them was perhaps twelve feet across, the largest one they had yet to find, though the stone seemed solid enough. Frowning, the prince had to push against some undefinable block as he sought to feel the stair with his mind, literally becoming the rock, every weakness a corresponding ache in his body.

Watching Nast miss yet again, he almost swore he saw the shadowy forms of the Fellowship, jumping and scrambling as part of the stair crumpled beneath them. The prince's gape of shock turned into a shaky chuckle as one of the distant figures was saved from falling by a taller figure grabbing his long, red beard! The stone here had a strong memory, one that had begun to show itself the deeper he pushed into connecting with it, leaving shades of dwarrow and others teasing at the edges of his vision day and night. It was getting nerve wracking just for Kíli to tell what was real and what might be yet another wisp of the past that would disappear within moments. Last night he could have sworn he saw one of the dwarrow of Balin's company lurking in the shadows near the supplies. When he had gotten up to check it out, however, the dwarf was gone.

It was the soft whine, very familiar to him, that drew his eyes up to see torchlight glint off of multiple objects in the air just as Nast let the grappling fly once more. The prince gasped, grabbing frantically at Kifir to pull him down even as he shuddered from the feel of the grappling hook landing, scraping over his skin as if it were the rock.

"Kíli? What's wrong, do we need to pull the team back?"

The words buzzed around his head like so many bees, making no sense as his eyes searched for the arrows he could have sworn were flying at them only to see empty air. Someone was shaking him, a face in his, but before he could pull out of the stone enough to respond, the grappling found an anchor point, the hook digging into the rock doubling him over with the feeling of being stabbed. It had never been this bad, this strong, before!

"Kíli! Sit down before you fall!"

Somehow he obeyed the words, though they did not seem to make any sense, feeling his body- flesh and blood, not stone, he must remember he was not the mountain! – fold down onto the unyielding surface beneath him. It was water dribbling from the corner of his mouth and onto his hand, however that finally tore him completely away to find Fíli trying to coax him to drink. Irritably, he pushed the water skin away.

"I'm fine!"

"Brother, I'm going to ban those words pretty soon."

Fíli's grim visage left his younger sibling with no doubt that he would, too, and the punishment for breaking that decree would not be to his liking.

"Alright, I'm a bit tired and cold, but nothing to worry about. Tell the team that the hook is secure."

A hand lifted from his shoulder as Kifir scrambled to obey, darting up the stairs with an energy that made Kíli feel old just watching. Sadly, it had not even been twenty years since he could have not only matched the younger dwarf's feat, but beat him up the stairs! It still hurt, twisting his stomach in knots as he saw what he would never again have; what he had taken for granted would always be his as he leaped easily from branch to branch in Mirkwood during the quest, twitting the others for their inability to do the same until Dwalin chucked a rock at him. Even when he had lain wounded in-

Firmly pushing such dark thoughts from him, he watched as Kifir came up to the others. He could see Thorin nod and wave the elf out over the rope to the other side, the activity giving him something to focus on besides the blonde still holding him tightly by his other shoulder. He did not want to look his brother in the eye, knowing Fíli would too easily see through his lies.

Not that it was all that much of one, really. He was alright, but the effort needed to read the stone left his head pounding and various body parts feeling bruised and aching. Above them, he could see the dwarrow already working on the far side of the gap to secure more ropes in preparation for placing the pre-built wooden span. The elf with them, Tanil, he thought Tauriel had said his name was, was balanced upon the rope already in place, speaking casually with Nast, as if not conscious of the two hundred foot drop below him.

"That still makes my blood run cold. Bloody elf! Can't they ever stand upon things that were meant for it instead of perching like overgrown birds?"

Dwalin's low, rumbling complaint brought a smile to Kili's lips as he glanced up to see the Warmaster and Thorin descending the last steps to the landing they rested upon. The king's expression was grim, though he could see his uncle trying hard not to allow a smirk at the warrior's words, catching the low teasing reply.

"You haven't forgiven Legolas for the river yet, have you?"

A snort, and the large dwarf's eyes narrowed at his shieldbrother.

"I didn't see him using _you_ for a stepping stone!"

Thorin snorted, but did not reply, worried gaze locked on his dark-haired nephew and not deceived in the least by Kili's attempt at a sunny reassuring smile of greeting.

"Do you need a halt called so that you might rest, Kíli?"

"No."

"Yes."

Fíli overrode, tone sharp with worry and a hint of anger that had Kíli turning to him with a frown.

"No! Fíli, I'm-"

"Don't say it!"

"-not in need of a break yet." He could not help the flare of resentment that was stoked to life by the blonde's scoff. "I am not some sickly child in need of coddling! We will never retake the city if everyone is constantly standing around waiting upon me! We have already been two days upon the stair and are only at the third level."

Before he could say anything further, however, a sharp pain, as if he were being skewered with a hot poker, erupted from his middle, tears springing unbidden to his eyes as he doubled over, gasping. One hand clenched at the others blindly, trying frantically to convey the warning he did not have the breath to shout. Voices yelled, mixing with one another into an intelligible jumble of Westron and Khuzdul, but his bleary vision was locked on the horror unfolding above.

Several of the advance party had begun moving before the last echoes of the warning had even died away, which is probably what saved their lives. Tanil was a blur as he physically grabbed the dwarf he had been talking to, tossing him across the gap to the other span, then turned to pick up another as the first ominous crack sounded. Swift elven feet began running back across the rope toward safety, lightly jumping over the hands of another dwarf who had managed to leap out and grab on. As the piece of stair shook, it sent the last two members of the team rolling down the steps, one managing to grab hold of rock even as the other tumbled into the air, disappearing with a shout of despair.

As the elf and his dwarf passenger swiftly crossed the last feet of rope, the pillar of broken stairwell gave one final shudder and began to drop, the last terrified member of the party clinging to it. There was another stab of fiery pain, and Kíli felt the grappling hook wrench loose, the weight of the dwarf only halfway across causing it to fall fast. The others grabbed hold of their end as the dwarf swung, a long arch out of their line of sight, but the prince felt the impact of body hitting unyielding stone nonetheless, three deaths one after another, and mercifully blacked out.

It could not have been more than a few minutes before he regained consciousness to the sound of a heated argument taking place almost on top of him. Though there was no longer any pain, Kíli felt a weird detachment, a coldness and distance from what was happening, that was unsettling even as another part whispered not to fight it, for stone did not feel pain, guilt, or loss. An abrupt wrench of fire in his head and he saw them all from far above, a silent watcher.

He was lying flat out on the stone of the landing, head and shoulders cradled in Fíli's lap, Kifir anxiously crouched nearby. Above him to one side was Thorin, on the other one of those who had just been saved, a sturdy, square-framed dwarf with a shockingly bright orange beard. Both were red-faced, hands gesturing wildly as they spoke. Then the elf tried to join in, and both dwarrow rounded on him. Kíli knew he needed to stop this before it escalated any further. At that thought, everything whirled around him, and he closed whatever non-corporeal eyes he used, only to have his physical ones spring open with a gasp.

"Stop! Stop it."

Hands were aiding him in sitting, a voice in his ear urging him to take it slowly, but he ignored that, totally focused upon the combatants above him. Thorin was the first to react, swiftly kneeling to place a hand on Kili's shoulder.

"It's alright, Kíli, nothing to-"

"No!" The prince knocked his uncle's hand aside, something he would not have dared to do even ten years ago, but he felt now that it was a right he had finally earned. Brown eyes met those of the other dwarf and the elf. "I am sorry that there was not warning enough to save everyone. I grieve with you."

"Save your pretty words, princeling! I did not come here to find death from unsteady rock and children too weak to warn us in time, fainting at the first inkling of trouble!"

Kíli flinched hard at the harsh words, reminding himself that the other was a northwestern Firebeard, one who knew nothing of the burden he now bore. He was quick to catch his uncle's sleeve, knowing that Thorin's temper would not stand for such insults, a defense that would only cause the other dwarf to sneer further at the prince. Beside him, Kifir was already on his feet, and the only thing restraining Fíli was the fact that he was still holding up his brother. Not all present were so restrained, however. A heavy, leather garbed fist caught the Firebeard hard across the mouth, blood droplets spraying out from a split lip.

"You will show proper respect to our prince!" Nast snarled, Gimli only a step behind him and bristling as red as his beard. "Even the few seconds we had probably saved your life, and we would not have had those without Prince Kíli!"

Thorin wrenched his arm from his nephew's grasp, standing to loom into the shocked dwarf's face, so close that the other leaned instinctively backward.

"You know nothing of what the prince sacrifices by being here! Give me one reason I should not order you thrown out of my door!"

Another dwarf shouldered his way to the front, this one with a deep burgundy beard gathered in two forked braids. He grabbed his angry kin by the arm and pressed a bit of cloth into his hand to stop the bleeding of his lip.

"Please, Lord Thorin, do not take his anger to heart. One of those who just fell was a childhood friend of ours."

Kíli grit his teeth at that, forcing weak legs to push up as Fíli's aiding hands under his armpits got him to his feet. Thorin looked as if he wanted to object, but settled for shaking his head at his nephew's stubbornness, then gave a small nod to acknowledge the silent plea in Kili's eyes. As he turned back to the offending dwarf, it was with the stern visage of Thorin Oakenshield in his most royal bearing.

"Go, take him back to camp, but if I hear one more word of such stupidity, I will not hesitate to carry through upon my threat. I will not abide with disrespect for my sister-sons or any other who comes to aid us here."

The prince could not help the shaky exhale of relief at that, knowing it was not often that Thorin would so easily relent. To his further astonishment, the king then gave a slight bow of respect to the elf.

"I thank you, Tanil. Without your swift actions, there would have been even more lives to mourn this night."

"Would that I could have done more, Durin King."

The elf murmured in response as the crowd around them slowly dispersed, an air of sadness permeating the surroundings. Thorin gave a silent shake of the head before turning back to the small group with them.

"Come, we will do no more this day. Kíli-"

The prince was quick to wave his uncle off, Fíli supporting him on one side while Kifir was on the other.

"I'm alright, uncle, I just need some rest."

"Hmm…" Came the noncommittal, and skeptical, answer, before the king turned away to eye their young cousin. "And what is wrong with you, Gimli? You're limping."

The red-bearded dwarf rolled his eyes before tilting his head in Nast's direction.

"This one landed on me!"


	10. I See Fire

Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

10. I See Fire

It was almost time for the evening meal before Thorin was able to break away from the small knots of concerned or mourning dwarrow to find his nephews. Besides the Firebeard, they had lost a Stiffbeard and a Longbeard from the Iron Hills, a veteran of both the Battle of the Five Armies and the Siege of Erebor during the War of the Ring. Though he had recalled all the teams after the tragedy on the stairs, the lack of active exploration did not mean that the king would be free to mourn privately. Instead, he had slowly made the rounds among the camps, speaking to any who wished it. Most whispered softly of other times, other sorrows, for the dwarrow had many to choose from, no matter their clan. Some, however, had concerns that Thorin tried not to view as petty, and anger that the king worried might grow.

The main camp had been moved this morning to the great concourse on the second level where the vast markets had once rung with the voices of dwarrow, elves, men, Beorn's ancient kin, and even some early hobbits. With so many hands, ideas, and ways of organizing, it was inevitable that some small items would be misplaced, but there had been things taken out of packs, leaving nothing else disturbed and who was to say whether a barrel was accidently stove in, or deliberately?

There were rumors spreading of some odd enemy plot or ghosts haunting the caverns, but the more plausible explanation was, in Thorin's view, even more depressing – a petty thief. Such a one could not only injure morale, but turn the closest of comrades against one another, let alone those they had been taught from birth to hate. At least the king had been able to have a quiet discussion with Nast on the issue. Who better than Nori's son to look into such a problem? His talents were wasted simply throwing a grappling hook!

Predictably after the trials of the day, Kíli seemed to have found the most isolated corner of the concourse without going into one of the old shops to start their small fire, someone having moved their things over as well. Just now, the prince was sitting slumped, a bowl from the noon meal left forgotten by his knee as he stared with unnatural stillness into the fire. Beside him, Fíli glanced up at their uncle's approach and gave a quick head shake, hands flashing the warning Thorin did not truly need.

'_He's feeling guilty and depressed. Walk carefully.'_

Abruptly, the younger prince shifted, casting a broken crossbow bolt into the flame with an angry snap of the wrist, making the fire flare briefly. The flash of greater light was quick, but enough for Thorin to see a pale face drawn with sweat and tears before the brown hair fell forward, shadowing it once more. Beside him, Fíli rubbed one hand soothingly up and down his sibling's back while murmuring words too soft for Thorin to catch, firelight making his own mane glint like pure gold.

Dark and light, a true reflection of their inner beings, Thorin mused as he settled down upon Kili's other side, though he did not try to touch his nephew. He knew better. Only Fíli's or Vestri's hand would be tolerated at the moment, with his older brother the more welcome of the two, no matter how much he truly loved his wife. Kíli would instantly shrug away from anyone else, even as he craved the comfort that they offered. These two rarely allowed those outside their small circle of friends and family to see the truth of their inner nature, instead hiding behind the shells they had created that were almost the exact opposite of their actual personalities. Or they had, until their return to life appeared to strip down many of the brunette's protective walls, leaving him raw and fragile.

Kíli had always bounced around, joyful, laughing, teasing, seeming a perpetual child to most… That exuberance had tamed somewhat now, occasionally even becoming visibly forced, a tarnished silver that only showed hints of the light hidden by the dark layer, yet another mask. Those false fronts stayed stubbornly in place, too thick for any to penetrate until he was alone with those few with whom he felt comfortable allowing in. Only they bore witness the fear, anger, and depression that so often took him, a thundercloud that could pass overhead without raining a drop, or the most violent of storms that flattened any with the misfortune to be in its path, even Kíli himself. It was these intense moments that caused his family to worry, when the self-doubt and anger turned inward, and the prince was his own worst enemy.

Fíli, by contrast, showed such a placid, serious, responsible nature that many had wondered how he could put up with, let alone be related to, his irrepressible brother. Hidden under that calm, however, was a wicked sense of humor that could scorch the unwary as readily the sun's hot rays in summer, with a deeply felt passion that could burn those who opposed him. The elder prince of Durin's line was the steady driving force behind his brother's somewhat erratic genius, while Kili's dark, more cautious side could stop the wave of stubborn certainty that sometimes threatened to swamp Fili. The two worked together as a seamless unit that could not be broken apart by the most determined of foes because they consistently read the two wrong, unable to grasp the true complexities of the relationship.

Kíli was dismissed as frivolous, mercurial, when it was actually he who agonized over rulings, examining them again and again from all sides, while Fíli was apt to jump when his heart told him he was in the right, not waiting for the logic to catch up. Such contrasts had proven to be the bedrock of their joint rule, strong and true, but Thorin knew that if an enemy were ever to come along who truly saw to the core of the duo, it could also prove to be their greatest weaknesses.

As the king silently sipped on his own mug of tea, a short form moved into the firelight, bearing two more cups that were handed to Fíli when Kíli made no sign of having noted his presence, merely casting another old quarrel from the pile next to him into the fire. Frodo settled to the ground halfway across the fire from the brothers and their uncle, giving Thorin a sympathetic smile. Even as the king acknowledged that with a tip of his head, his heart ached once more for the dear friend the younger hobbit so resembled. Here, silhouetted by the fire, Frodo could easily have been mistaken for Bilbo, even his darker hair matching what the older hobbit's had looked like after weeks on the road with no proper baths.

During the year and a half the old hobbit had lived in Erebor following Thorin's return to life, the two had become close friends, giving the dwarrow king a vital outlet for the troubled emotions he dared not share with his family. The doubts, fears, and rages when he did not understand, or could not cope with, the changes wrought by his becoming Durin had all been absorbed by the elderly hobbit with an understanding ear, sound advice, or a tart rebuke as needed. In his turn, Thorin had held the other as he mourned the damage he had unintentionally brought upon his own heir with a shared understanding few others could match.

Thorin had long mused over why he had suddenly taken to Bilbo in such a way, and had finally concluded that the old hobbit reminded him of Balin. From the white hair and somewhat acid wit to his kindly nature and willingness to call Thorin a fool to his face, the burglar was the check the king had sorely lacked with Balin's absence. How often had their former burglar sat as he raged against the cult and its elusiveness or chafed with impatience at the slow preparations to retake the Iron Hills? Was this, then, what his own suspicious, stubborn nature had robbed him of during the quest for Erebor? Had he listened to and valued the hobbit then, as Gandalf had constantly urged, might the disaster that unfolded at the foot of the mountain have been prevented? He would never know, but had vowed not to make the same mistake twice.

"Frodo," The former Ringbearer looked up, a slightly strained smile telling the king that the memories must be pressing equally close for the hobbit tonight. "How is Gimli?"

The hobbit laughed lightly at that, rolling expressive eyes in long sufferance.

"He's fine, just sulking and grumbling to Legolas about dwarf tossing and how many bruises he gained this time."

A snort from across the fire let them know that Fíli, at least, was listening, though Kíli remained motionless, a shadow against the stone wall. The oldest prince allowed a small smile as he spoke.

"From what I've heard, he's suffered worse. Gimli just likes to play the martyr; he always has."

"Indeed."

Out of respect for a dwarf Thorin had a feeling he might never see alive again, he refrained from remarking on Glóin's similar, and annoying, tendencies toward drama. By the twinkle in Fíli's eyes, however, he was following his uncle's shaft of thought without any trouble. Now, though, Thorin turned to his younger nephew, knowing that putting off the question would accomplish nothing beyond allowing Kíli to sink deeper into his morass of self-recrimination.

"Kíli… I need to know what happened today."

He was very, very careful to allow no hint of accusation or doubt to color his tone, but the prince flinched as if he had been struck anyway. The response was low and bitter.

"So do I, Thorin." The lack of a familial title was telling. Kíli only reverted to such stiff correctness now when in council, court, or when he felt some action of his had denied him the right to claim such ties, a form of self-punishment that he allowed none to contradict, even Fíli. "It's like… trying to shoot through a fog. I don't always know if I'm seeing a deer or a log… or nothing, then, all at once, things are too sharp, too bright, and I get blinded. I saw- I can't-"

The prince cut himself off with a frustrated growl, hand clenching the black bolt shaft he had picked up so hard that it snapped with a sharp 'crack', making the rest of them jump. Kíli merely huffed in disgust, pitching the pieces into the fire before reaching beside him for another, this one already partially split. Why the prince had decided to take it upon himself to collect all the old, useless projectiles, Thorin had no clue, though they made decent fuel if one could put up with the smell of burned fletching.

"Do you think it is because you're not carrying the Arkenstone?" Fíli asked softly.

It was a good question, though Thorin did not care much for the idea of the unpredictable stone here. Though it was what had first publicly marked Thorin for who he now was, it was a power that the Durins had never dealt with, making him uneasy, wary of something that so clearly had a will of its own. Kíli, however, was already shaking his head.

"No, we considered that before leaving, remember? It seemed to make no difference whether I carry it or not."

In fact, the prince had not actually kept the gem to hand except upon ceremonial occasions for years. Given the thing's penchant for becoming lost or manipulating those around it, Thorin had been relieved when leaving it in the treasure vault seemed to cause no further problems for his nephew. While the Arkenstone had shown none of the taint inherent in the Rings of Power, the king could not shake a deep seated unease about it, either.

"Besides, it's in my pack."

"What?"

Thorin and Fíli blurted in unison, receiving a breathy laugh and roll of the eyes from Kíli before he leaned to the side, fishing in the bottom of his small leather travel case. When he pulled out his hand, the Arkenstone's dancing colors lit up the room, making several of those nearby jerk around to stare at the princes before a glare by Thorin scattered them.

"I thought we had decided you would not carry it!"

Fíli exclaimed, eyes locked on the gem, which almost seemed to be twinkling, as if it had managed to carry off a joke and was laughing at them! Thorin grunted, dismissing that thought as the overactive imagination of a tired mind. He refused to believe any piece of mere stone could have a personality! His younger nephew shrugged, expression a bit sheepish.

"I know, and I didn't pack it, Fíli, I swear! I found it this morning wrapped in one of my extra tunics."

The king frowned, but did not call his nephew on the blatant impossibility of that. Of the royal family, only Kíli would touch the Arkenstone, so only he could have placed it in the pack, whether he would admit to it or not!

"What if it's like the Ring?"

Frodo's question, coming hard on the heels of Thorin's musings, almost made the king blanch, snapping his head around to stare at the hobbit in horror. Across the fire, Kili's face had darkened with what looked to be a defensive objection, but Fíli's hastily raised hand stilled his brother.

"What do you mean, Frodo?"

The hobbit's head darted around to assess one dwarf, and then the others before hastily flushing, shaking his head vigorously.

"Oh! No, not like that, I didn't mean to suggest that the stone might be evil. Even Bilbo had no problem handling it with the Ring no longer around. I meant that the closer I came to the source of the Ring's power, the stronger It grew, able to twist companions, pull at me…" Frodo shuddered, face a bit pale and peaked, but not the bone white it used to get when forced to talk about his former burden. "When I was still in the Shire, I remember that its tug was very light, tentative except for when Gandalf was around. At one point, a Ringwraith was almost on top of us, literally, as we hid in a grotto under the road embankment, but it couldn't find us. Later on, though, the things didn't seem to have to be that close at all. Maybe Kíli cannot feel the rock as easily here because we are so far from Erebor." The hobbit fidgeted a moment before continuing, gaze locked with Kíli. "It would also make me do things that I was not consciously aware of."

Thorin shuddered, a chill flowing through him at the thought of an unknown will manipulating his kin, even if it were benevolent. By Kili's blanch, he had not cared for the idea, either, while Fíli seemed to radiate barely contained anger. Finally, the blonde stirred, one hand still resting on his brother's shoulder.

"He didn't have any trouble last winter in Erebor, and all he had then was a map!"

The object of their discussion rolled his eyes again, casting another broken arrow shaft, this one white, into the blaze with a huff.

"You might try speaking to me instead of about me! I wasn't trying to read immediate changes in the rock last winter, just its present state." The brunette lowered his eyes, hands now tossing and turning the Arkenstone. "I think it might be like the bridge; I couldn't tell that was ready to fall until I touched it. If I stay closer to the front team, maybe I can warn them sooner."

"Or get yourself killed!" Fíli instantly objected, Thorin snapping his mouth shut on his own words and pursing his lips in unhappy agreement. "You can't move as fast, nor fight as long as the others if they are attacked, Kíli!"

"I will not have you put at risk."

Thorin's tone warned of the finality of that decision even as he caught Fíli's eye over the other's head, asking the inevitable silent question. Was now the time to order the princes home? The blonde's frown let him know it was being considered, but his brother erupted first.

"Thorin, I have to! I have to- I can save lives!"

Kili's body tensed, one hand pulling up his ironwood cane as if he meant to press himself to his feet despite his shakiness. The king, however, found his eyes caught by the simple wood, a stark reminder of the disability his nephew now battled daily, and a telling argument for why he should stick with his original pronouncement.

It was not one of a half dozen the prince could choose from back in Erebor, all of them elaborately decorated and made of precious materials, reflecting the various cultures and people who had gifted them to him. Instead, this one was a stout, straight piece of wood bound with iron bands in three places and caps upon its ends, one of which was a sharp point to aid in anchoring if necessary. It had been made by Thorin, patterned after the one carried long ago by Óin, and made to serve as a weapon as well as an aid for faltering steps since the prince no longer carried a sword. The desperation in Kili's eyes, however, spoke of more than just a responsibility; his pale, clammy face glistening with fever in the firelight. The king's eyes narrowed as an incident from their long journey home was brought to the fore of his mind by the sight.

"You felt them die," It was a horrified whisper, "The impact of body on stone, the blood seeping into cracks in the floor."

"I still feel them, laying atop me as they grow stiff and cold."

The words were a bare murmur, brown eyes focused unseeing upon the darkness beyond their camp, with no visible recognition of his horrified listeners. It was not something that any of them had even thought to consider when speaking of whether Kíli should join the expedition to Khazad-dûm; probably because they had all forgotten about it.

With the younger prince constantly attuned to the mountain, there had been no serious mining accidents in fourteen years, and certainly no deaths. The mental toll alone of such a thing… Thorin's stomach twisted at the mere thought. It was akin to volunteering to be tortured! Appalled, he could do no more than stare at his nephew.

The brunette's entire body flinched, almost curling into a fetal position as his face turned as white as southern marble, only the moisture filling too large brown eyes letting an observer know that this was a living being. His breathing was rapid and shallow, hands frozen in place, one clutching the staff, the other the Arkenstone, which was no longer shining with bright colors. Instead, the stone reflected muted blues and silver, serving only to emphasize the extreme pallor of its bearer's face. Kíli gave a gasp of air, and slumped boneless to the cold stone floor, Fíli's darting grasp to stop it catching only empty air, his head impacted the stone with the sickening sound of a watermelon dropped by a careless child on midsummer's eve.

"Kíli!"

Thorin was on his knees beside his nephew in an instant, hands running down the prince's limbs looking for any hidden injuries, though he did not expect any. Thankfully, there was no spreading pool of crimson coming from the dark halo of hair, as he had feared would be the case. He could hear Frodo calling for a healer behind him, but paid it no mind as the young dwarf began to stir at his touch on the prince's face. A shoulder bumped his, and he moved slightly so that there was room for Fíli, as well. Both watched, breathe held, as Kíli stirred, shuddering before brown eyes flicked open to gaze around, dazed.

"F-Fíli? Wha-?"

Fumbling hands attempted to push himself up, grimacing as one sent the Arkenstone skittering across the floor. Fíli and Thorin immediately put arms around their kin's back, aiding him to sit upright as well as guarding against a repeat of the sudden collapse.

"Easy, Kíli, take it slow. You hit that floor awfully hard."

The younger prince seemed to agree, one hand lifting to his head as he closed his eyes, weight suddenly being held entirely by the other two. Thorin frowned, shifting to take all of the burden.

"Fíli, I have him, scoot around behind. I don't want to lay him down flat again on this cold floor."

He could feel the rising fever battling with the chill Kíli had already taken.

"Right."

The blonde had just gotten into position, taking his brother so that the brown head rested against his shoulder, when several dwarrow and a man bustled up, surrounding them. Dwalin, who had moved to stand guard over the royals at some point, scowled at Nast.

"Could you not find a dwarrow healer?"

The man, who looked to be in his early thirties, waved the warrior off with one negligent hand, making Thorin's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. There were not many who would so casually dismiss Dwalin! The healer unrolled his bundle of herbs and other remedies next to the princes, large, dexterous hands already gently prodding at the back of Kili's head.

"I was closest, and I've treated the prince before. Does that hurt, Kíli?"

"Y-yess…"

The prince's single word answer sounded as if he spoke through a mouthful of mush, making the healer's eyes narrow.

"Kíli. Look at me."

"S-stop… Make'em stop."

"Make what stop?"

The man expertly snagged his patient's flailing hands while trying to peer into the prince's eyes. The question, however, seemed to make Kili's agitation worse, head whipping from side to side with eyes squeezed against the light of the candle the healer held close.

"B-bees… buzzin'! Stop'em!"

The injured dwarf knocked aside the healer's hands again, only the man's fast reflexes keeping the lit candle from flying into one of the anxious watchers, and Thorin decided to intervene.

"Kíli!"

Thorin's bark, at least, got the desired response, even if everyone else around them started, including Fíli. Brown eyes flew open to blink dazedly at the man in front of him, then the prince smiled slightly.

"You look older."

The healer laughed even as he slowly moved a finger in front of his patient's face, watching the eyes that automatically followed it.

"That's what happens with men, Kíli. We don't live as long as you do, so fourteen years can make a big difference. Coryn didn't come, he has three little ones he wasn't keen to leave, but he sends his greetings. You seem to have given yourself a nice lump. Guess even dwarrow heads aren't harder than stone!"

Thorin frowned, glancing over his shoulder as he wished Senata had been around instead of this man and his inane chatter. Kíli, however, giggled, and the king began to understand. The light banter was meant to test how much attention his patient was able to give his surroundings, and how much he was comprehending. Giggling like a dwarfling, though…

"Wyvern. Alwa's though-t funny name…"

It was only as Kíli slurred the name with another giggle that Thorin at last identified the annoyingly familiar young man; he was one of the twin healing apprentices who had stayed with the three dwarrow immediately following their return to life in Minas Tirith. With that, the king relaxed, for if he were to trust any healers that were not dwarrow, it would be one trained and sent by Aragorn.

"Aye, it is for a Gondorian, but not for one from the far north. My mother was originally of the people who settled in Fornost, but her parents were exiled when she was young, and they wandered until they were able to make a new life in Minas Tirith. When we were born, Mother told Father he could name one of us – Coryn – and she, the other. Wyvern was a creature from the legends of her people, some sort of lesser dragon. Now, how about you answer some questions for me, instead?"

"Hmmm…"

Kíli made a low hum of agreement.

"Do you know where you are?"

A soft scoff, as if the prince resented such a basic question.

"Khaa-zahhd… doom. Un-uncle an' Fíli wan' me to go home, but I can't. Won't. Nope. Nuh-uh."

"He's acting like he's drunk!"

Fíli glanced down at his brother in consternation, only to receive a bright smile in return. Wyvern chuckled, shaking his head.

"Head injuries do that to some people, Fíli. Adding in the exhaustion and fever, you have a more potent brew than the richest ale. It would account for the slurring, as he's not showing any of the symptoms I would expect to see with a more severe concussion. His pupils are both equal and reacting to light, which is a very good sign. I think it best that we let him sleep. We'll keep a healer watching him through the night and see how he is in the morning. You dwarrow heal fast, which is a blessing, at least, but I don't want him doing anything but resting for at least the next several days."

"He won't."

Thorin assured him with a grim certainty, moving to the side as several dwarrow arrived with armloads of blankets to lay out a softer, warmer bed for the injured prince. Kíli would have the rest and quiet he needed to heal, but after that… Whether he and Fíli stayed or returned to Erebor had yet to be decided.


	11. Darkness Falls Upon Durin's Halls

Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

Author's Note: What's this? A fast update? That's what happens when the Artic Circle drops in for a week and you can't go outside without freezing your nose off! Thank you to everyone who has been following and favoriteing me, and to my reviewers, a special thank you! It's sometimes difficult to want to write unless you know people are reading. Scribe

11. Darkness Falls upon Durin's Halls

That night, Thorin tossed in his sleep, waking just enough to pull at the blanket and listen to the soft sounds of the current healer on duty, Senata, and Lis talking quietly where the dwarrowdams kept watch over the injured Kíli. Satisfied that all was well, the king attempted to settle back, but his dreams were not willing to give him the escape from his worries that he sought. Instead, the anxieties caught upon echoes of similar feelings from long ago, drawing the king into another age.

_Second Age, 699_

_Blain, the dwarf who would become Durin II, swung down from his pony with a weary sigh, casting a glare up at the overcast sky that threatened to dump yet another cold spring rain on the travelers. To his left, the trees of Lindórinand were a dark smudge in the distance, while the mountains ahead loomed ever larger before them with every hoof beat. At least they had forded the Anduin before the spring run-off made it completely impassible without a boat!_

"_Shall we camp here, or do you feel able to push on to the city? 'Tis almost dark already."_

_The question was addressed to his wife, a lovely dwarrowdam with iron-grey hair, though she was barely past her fiftieth year. Frey was of the Stonefoots, an eastern clan known for their odd hair colors, including a black so dark that it was almost blue, stone grey, and a blonde that was almost white, mimicking the rock they were made from. Frey, who had never been all that comfortable riding, slid from her own pony with a heartfelt sigh, glancing up at the towering mountains before them._

"_We are almost there, aye?"_

_Blain could not help smiling at that, knowing exactly what was running through her mind._

"_Aye, and that means you can get off that beast all the sooner."_

"_Good!" The lady planted her hands on her hips. "Dwarrow feet were meant to be planted on stone; dense, immovable, solid rock, not dangling in the air atop an unruly creature!"_

_The glare she gifted her mount with was returned by a wet sneeze directly into her face, provoking an aggravated moan from the dwarrowdam._

"_You see, my husband! It is not I alone who harbor such feelings!"_

_Blain laughed at that, planting a kiss on her nose as he helped her remount before swinging back aboard his own pony and kicking the shy beast into another ground-eating trot. He could not help it, he so loved her clipped eastern speech and occasional odd phrasing! Her people were historically more isolated, he had learned upon their visit to her home, traditionally speaking only Khuzdul until the age of forty or fifty when they would begin to learn Westron, Middle Earth's common language. That this was the exact opposite of their current practice in Khazad-dûm, where Khuzdul was jealously guarded for use in private or in rituals. _

_Of course, the kingdom under the Misty Mountains was also fast becoming a center of trade, with up to four or five different languages heard in the great market on any day, even elves being tolerated. The merchants and diplomats had both recently petitioned the king to bar the teaching of Khuzdul to any outsider, no matter how much a part of the city they became, without the express permission of the King's Council, preferring to have one language that others could not overhear and understand. Of course, the priests of Mahal had been quick to seize upon the excuse, suddenly citing previously obscure texts as saying that Mahal meant the language for dwarrow alone._

"_Aye, and I know the Stonefoot opinion on ponies, too, so you needn't say it! One end drools and bites, the other stinks and kicks, and the middle is none too comfortable, either!"_

_Frey's answering laugh was a full-throated expression of joy that echoed back from the nearby rocky cliffs, not some nervous twitter or tiny squeak that was all the rage with the ladies of men and had recently jumped to dwarrow as well. As Blain's own mirth bubbled over, unable to be contained any longer in the presence of his lady's own, he could only wonder at the good fortune that made this dwarrowdam his wife. Who would have imagined that an arranged marriage, sought to mix blood ties with those of diplomacy, could turn out to be one of deep love?_

_He had grown up knowing that the nephew of a king, no matter how far down the line of succession, had value, especially for Durin's Folk, the most prosperous of all dwarrow, and that it would almost certainly mean he would not be free to choose his own mate. Resigned to the sacrifice, he had thrown himself into his craft, gaining master status before his eightieth year, hoping to use it as an escape from what would be a loveless alliance with a much younger dwarrowdam. Instead, he had not only found his match in love, but also in craft. Her etchings added beauty and style to otherwise functional weapons in a way that made even the master smiths of the elves take notice. Now, at ninety-nine, the only thing lacking was a child, but there would be plenty of time for that!_

_An hour later, as the gloom of twilight settled around them, heralding the swiftly approaching night, they paused, and Blain's stomach knotted in a way it should not for one upon the threshold of home. Below them, the dale that usually rang with hammer and chisel working on the monument to Durin I, and the shouts of dwarrow, men, or elves lining up pack ponies and wagons sat oddly silent. A light rain pattering on the stone was the only sound, even the mountain lichen that should be a riot of color in the spring a dark, burned black smear upon the rocks._

_He had known something had to be badly amiss, of course, or his uncle never would have ordered him home before the three month long visit to his wife's kin was complete, but what could be so drastic that it would require his presence instead of that of his three cousins, the king's own sons and heirs? The order had borne the seal of his uncle, which meant the king himself had not unexpectedly passed, so why else-_

_A jolt between his shoulder blades knocked the air from his lungs as he was pushed hard into the pommel of the saddle, the arrow, oddly shortened, making a metallic clank as it bounced to the rock of the roadway. Even as the dwarf struggled to turn, and regain his breath, more arrows whistled through the air, deflected by the hasty raising of shields by the two guards who rode at their sides. A moment later, though, one of those dwarrow went down, limp body sprawling to the earth with an arrow protruding from his eye._

_With a roar of outrage for this attack upon the very doorstep of his home, Blain kicked his feet loose of the saddle and leapt to the ground, planting himself as he swung the great war ax off his back. A goblin, face and body twisted by disease, shrieked as his weapon bit deeply, black blood flowing from a mortal wound. Nearby, another of the creatures was wrestling with an odd weapon that looked as if someone had taken a child's toy bow and mounted it crosswise on wood. With another guttural bellow, the dwarf ensured that the thing could not be used again, even if its bearer had lived beyond the next moment._

_The smith smiled grimly as he caught a flash of silvery-white out of the corner of his eye, Frey undoubtedly making short work of her own attackers. The mithril blade she bore would easily slice through the few bits of shoddy armor that their foes wore! Two more goblins crowded in, probably hoping to force him into leaving himself open to one while defending against the other, but dwarrow, unlike these dark creatures, were not so easily taken down. _

_A swift elbow knocked one aside while the blade of his ax separated the other from its head, but before he could return to his first opponent, the goblin sprouted a sword blade through his chest. Frey's smile as she kicked free the body was feral, daring him to object to her unsolicited aid. He contented himself with rolling his eyes in annoyance as he tossed a small dagger from his belt at the foe attempting to take his wife from behind, not interested in earning another landing on his backside during their next sparring session by saying more. He had not known how truly he wrought when he decided upon the mithril weapon as a pledging gift!_

"_Blain! Behind!"_

_The quick shout had him spinning before she completed his name, though he almost missed when the goblin was shorter than he expected. As it was, sparks flew as his ax was stopped short by the rough blade of the twisted little creature, then the shoddy iron forging gave way, spraying both combatants with shards of metal as Blain ended its life. Silence; only the harsh breathing of the three surviving dwarrow gave life to the dale. The cuts on his face and hands from the fragments of his foe's former weapon were beginning to sting and burn, blood and water running into his right eye momentarily blinding him. _

_Where were the guards of Khazad-dûm? Even if they had not been able to see the fight through the rain, they surely should have heard it!_

"_Blain? You are well?"_

"_Just a few cuts, Frey. We need to move. Now."_

"_Aye," The guard, an older dwarf who normally oversaw the weapons training of the youngest children, sounded grim, eyes meeting that of his charges with a deep unease. "I've never heard of goblins this close to the gates of the city before. Something is badly wrong here."_

"_I know." _

_Blain's whisper held all of his own dark fears and nightmares as he grabbed the reins of his pony and pulled his wife up before him, glad at least two of the beasts had not bolted, though their baggage was long gone. With the click of hooves on stone the only sound, the three dwarrow rode hard for the dark, empty hole that was the eastern gate of Khazad-dûm._

The next morning, Thorin found himself standing in one of the halls leading off the stairs on the third level of Khazad-dûm, waiting as scouts forged ahead, mind still mulling over the dark memories that had haunted his dreams the night before. Dwarrow history held few legends and even fewer facts about the kings between Durin I and Durin II. What had happened that placed a nephew on the throne? Was it a warning that Thorin risked the lives of his own by continuing? Or something else?

With Kíli unable to aid them, he had decided that the safest course was to explore and secure the first three upper levels of the city, then to venture up as Kíli was able. The stairs, with their stone rent in large gashes and long fall below, were not a risk it would be worth taking. A clatter in the hall made the king glance up, pleased to see the familiar figures of Dwalin and Bofur leading the way back to their waiting lord.

"Well?"

He blurted out, impatient with the delay caused by their insistence on him waiting until they were certain no enemies lurked nearby, and the sheer tension of recent events. The duo approaching him would shrug off his temper, having had too much exposure to it over the years. Dwalin shook his head, muscular tattooed forearms leaning comfortably on the head of his great war hammer, the metal bright and clean.

"There's sign of recent occupation, but none of the filth stayed to greet us. It'll take years to get rid of the stench."

"Did ya really expect them to, with the legendary Dwalin leadin' the way? Probably had them shakin' in their boots and callin' for their mamas!"

Bofur's grin was wide, as if daring Thorin to rebuke him for the flippancy, but the king stayed silent as the large warrior next to the former toymaker snorted, answering in a dry tone.

"Orcs don't wear boots, nor do they have mothers."

"If orcs and the filth they leave behind are the worst we must deal with, Dwalin, I would count us blessed by Mahal indeed."

"Aye." His old friend acknowledged the truth of his king's words with a sigh. "They're hiding here somewhere, and I dislike letting them make the first move. 'Tis likely to be ugly."

"There is no other choice with the Western gate still barred. Nor would I split my forces more than I already have."

"Granted the beastie in the water won't be goin' anywhere, but we'll have to deal with it eventually."

Bofur waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the damaged portal as they began to walk down the hall, dwarrow warriors pausing in their task of sifting through debris to acknowledge their monarch. These, Thorin knew, had been the main administration and training rooms for the military of the kingdom, and beyond them would be the council rooms and the original royal apartments, the king's goal for the day.

"Aragorn and I are planning to send a team of rangers and dwarrow to drain the lake when we are closer to that end of the kingdom. They will then deal with the beast, but we must insure that it cannot make its way into Khazad-dûm through the lowest deeps first."

"I would be on that team," Dwalin's deep rumble made Thorin nod in acknowledgement. The warrior may not have always gotten along with his healer cousin, but he would not allow the death to go unavenged, especially as he was denied the chance to do so for Balin. "I owe that creature a taste of iron for spilling the blood of Durin's line."

"Very well."

Truthfully, Thorin was not at all surprised by the request; had planned on it, in fact. Right now, though, he had other things in mind.

"The council rooms may provoke some strong memories."

The warrior just grunted, while the councilor nodded, suddenly thoughtful.

"What I don't understand is what you hope to find, Thorin. Anything of value would have been looted long ago."

"Not necessarily. There are hidden caches that can only be opened by those of Durin's blood, and one only by Durin himself. It is these that I seek."

He did not try explaining his other motivation; that since the dream-memories of the night before, he had been driven by an urge to retrace the steps of young Blain, who would become Durin II.

"My lords!"

The three dwarrow were brought to a halt by the call, a flustered young dwarf gasping a bit as he struggled to gulp air after his sprint down the corridor. Thorin paled, fear settling in his belly.

"What is it? Kíli?"

His nephew had not been the most communicative since the incident on the stairs and the injury that followed, speaking sparingly and then only to insist that he be allowed to attend the rituals for the three who had died. Fíli had been growing more agitated daily, certain that a blow-up was coming with his brother, but despairing of just what was behind it. The messenger shook his head.

"No, the prince is still resting. There has been an incident with a patrol!"

"Well, speak up, lad! What do you mean by 'incident'?"

Bofur prodded as Dwalin swung his axes loose, glancing around as if he expected enemies to appear around them at any moment.

"Attacked?"

The large dwarf demanded, scowling.

The runner shook his head again.

"No one can find them! There is no sign of attack or anything, they just didn't return!"

Dwalin instantly relaxed, scoffing.

"Idiots probably got lost! For this you bother the king? He has-"

"Dwalin." The name was not loud, but it stopped the warrior cold. The king's mind raced even as he turned to the young messenger. "You were correct to bring this to me. As there is no sign of battle, we will give them time, but keep Prince Fíli apprised of what occurs, he is in camp, and send another patrol to trace their path."

"At once, my lord."

The messenger turned, preparing to bolt once more, but Bofur grabbed him by the arm, chuckling.

"And lad, you don't need to run everywhere. Ya do no one any good if you're so out of breath they can't understand your message!"

The lad flushed, but bobbed his head before taking off at a slightly more sedate pace. Thorin just shook his head at the energy of the young, waving his companions back toward his goal as he absently ran a hand down one wall.

It was odd, the feelings provoked by being here were growing day by day. In his mind, he could see the beautifully woven tapestries that once covered these walls, telling the history of the dwarrow as one paced the corridor. Rich reds, blues, even purples and golds, had gleamed in the lantern light as a grandfather knelt to tell his grandson one of the many stories depicted, the dwarfling's eyes gleaming in wonder. With a shock, Thorin finally associated the emotions coursing through him as the same as when he had first stepped foot through the hidden door back into Erebor all those years ago. It was _home_!

This was where he was born to be, the place in which memories from the other Durins were fast becoming more real to him than his own childhood within Erebor. In some ways, that realization terrified him as he once again faced an assault upon the core of 'Thorin', feelings and frustrations that were not his own bending and even breaking his old thought patterns. When had he begun to regard some of the elves, especially the twin sons of Elrond, as allies or even... friends? It was difficult to sustain the hatred when an adult elf offering him a bowl of stew morphed into a child with a gap-toothed grin pushing slightly squashed dandelions into his hand, eyes full of hero-worship, a parent smiling indulgently behind. He paused to run his fingers over the soft weave of a tapestry showing elves and dwarrow working together in the smithies of the city only to gasp when he found nothing but hard stone.

"Thorin?"

Bofur's hesitant inquiry made the king smile slightly, banishing the bright colors and warm images of yesteryear back where they belonged.

"I am fine. It seems that the longer I am here, the stronger the memories grow. This corridor led to the royal apartments used by both Durin I and II."

"And this room?"

Dwalin asked, shouldering open the door with a grimace for the disgusting remnants of animal bones littering the table and words written in the Black Speech upon the walls. To Thorin, however, there were the banners of the kings of the Free Peoples lining the walls, or was it the insignia of the Seven Dwarrow Families?

_"Durin!"_

Thorin started, stiffening as he began to discretely take note of those with him, attempting to discern if the call had been an actual one, or another memory. Movement from the corner of his eye whipped his head around, hand swiftly drawing Orcrist in one smooth motion as he turned to face the man across the stone table. He was tall, possibly taller even then Aragorn, with yellow-white hair falling about his shoulders and blue eyes as bright as sapphires.

"Who are you, and by what right do you bear arms against the King of Khazad-dûm?"


End file.

Hobbit, Lord of the Rings, Adventure, Hurt-Comfort